Furthest from the Truth
by spiercemint
Summary: Santana Lopez met Brittany Pierce in her school's library on April 20th, 1999. They both survived the Columbine Massacre, one of the worst school shootings in history, and Santana and Brittany developed an extremely close bond. The event and Santana's new friendship began a struggle with her sexuality and the emotional scarring that the shooting left on her mind and her heart.
1. Chapter 1

WARNINGS: school shooting, violence

"The final portrait is often furthest from the truth."- Dave Cullen, _Columbine_

* * *

_April 20, 1999_

I was using my fork to push all of my scrambled eggs to one side of my plate, pondering the uselessness of AP physics, when my mom burst into the kitchen, work bag in hand, blue scrubs on, white shoes on her feet.

"Mija, eat up. You're already late. You cannot be late for the exam!" She talked while she hurried around the small kitchen, exasperated and frustrated, turning on the water in the sink to soak the pan she had used to make my eggs. Leaving the water on, she hurried from there to the coffee maker, bringing the full mug to her lips and cursing when the hot liquid burnt her tongue. It happened every single morning, and I could not understand why she didn't wait to drink her coffee so it didn't burn her mouth. I shook my head at my eggs.

"Mom, I'm not hungry. I don't feel well." The excuse slipped from my tongue without thought. "I don't think I should go to school today." It was easy for me to tell lies, easy to get what I wanted. Getting what I wanted was easy when it came to everyone except for my mom.

"Santana, don't try to trick me. You look fine," she countered, her tone lightening, becoming sympathetic. She slowed down to turn off the water running in the sink and placed her coffee on the counter, smiling at me lovingly. I looked away, uncomfortable under her gaze.

I sighed. "I just really don't want to take this test, mama."

She smiled weakly, knowing. "I know, Santana. But you've been studying for over a week for this exam, I know you're ready."

My bare feet found the creaking wood floor below me as I ignored her and carried my plate of uneaten eggs to the trash can, scraping them off with my fork and leaving the dish in the sink. I leaned against the counter and my mom approached me, looking up at me from a shorter height, and straightened my short-sleeved blouse.

"You are beautiful," she complimented. "So grown up."

"Yeah, well, being a beautiful grown-up won't help me pass my physics exam. Which I," I glanced at the clock, "will most definitely be late for if we don't leave soon."

Reproach colored her face, settling in the stress lines on her forehead and at the creases of her eyes. She was offended. She turned away from me, grabbing the coffee and the briefcase simultaneously and plucking her keys from the dish by the side door, mumbling in Spanish about my poor behavior. I grabbed my own bag and followed her out to the driveway and got into the Honda. When my behavior had become so uncharacteristic that it required explanation, I had passed it off as exhaustion, which was a part of it, but I had been feeling more distant from everyone lately; I had been working myself to the bone all year to pull good grades in AP classes to improve my GPA and have a shot at a good college. In the process I had blown off movie nights with friends, dinner dates with boys, and heart-to-hearts with my mom to lock myself in my bedroom room to study for hours. My grades reflected the hard work, and I was satisfied with them, but I was soon realizing that my efforts had caused my relationships with my mom and my friends to deteriorate.

Guilt had been a visitor that I was becoming more accustomed to feeling the burden of. I knew I was all my mom had; my dad was out of the picture, leaving before I had been born. I had no idea what he looked like, and I didn't care to know. I knew he broke my mama's heart, and for that, he didn't deserve a place in my life. I didn't need him. The school year was over in a little over a month. Today was my last physics test before finals, and my grade in the class depended on it more than it should have. But I knew that once the school year was completed, I would have the entire summer to spend with my mom looking at colleges and repairing our relationship. I was looking forward to the break.

My mom had been driving me to school since high school started. As a freshman I had begged my mom not to make me take the bus, explaining that it was so terribly dorky to ride the bus to school when we only lived five minutes away. She had grudgingly obliged, driving me to school in our dated Honda. Five mornings a week we drove through the Denver suburb, and she dropped me off at the front doors before driving to the city to the hospital, where she worked as a nurse. This particular morning I leaned on the window, watching the sun begin to streak the sky with tints of yellow and pink.

Because of my general lack of enthusiasm in the morning, our car rides were usually silent. Today, the silence was deliberate, on her part. Feeling guilty, I picked at my newly manicured nails, earning a look from my mom. I stopped, sighed, and let my hands fall into my lap. I asked her meaningless questions about work and she gave short, distracted answers. Annoyed with myself for making her angry with me, I tapped my fingers on my legs. She pulled into the front of the school, which was already teeming with students. Seniors pulled into the parking spots closest to the school, and juniors walked from the further lot, cradling cups of coffee and juggling heavy backpacks. Underclassmen hurried off of the buses when they arrived, ducking into the school and desperate to be ignored.

I leaned over the center console and grabbed my backpack from the back seat by one strap, slinging it into my lap. Gripping the car door handle, I twisted in my seat to peck my mother on the cheek. She mustered a sad smile, touching my arm as I got out of the car, my backpack slung over one of my shoulders. I stepped onto the curb and moved to shut the car door, but I stopped, suddenly, and ducked back inside of the car.

My mother watched me wearily, but with curiosity evident in her features.

"Hey mom?"

"Yes, Santana?"

"I love you, you know that?" I shifted the weight of the bag on my shoulder, supporting it with my back. I waited for her response, feeling as though I needed her forgiveness. Distractions would not help me on my test.

"Yes, mija. I love you too," she smiled, this time a real Lopez smile. "Now go ace that test."

I smiled back at her, removing myself from the car a second time and pushing the door closed. The day was warmer than usual for April, and the long Colorado winter was finally transitioning into a mild spring. I welcomed the change, having grown tired of sweaters and winter coats and boots.

I pushed through the hordes of students congesting the hallway and made my way to my locker, where I exchanged a few textbooks and dropped off my lunch. Cheerleaders in blue and silver uniforms brushed my shoulders as they passed, some of them stopping to survey my outfit, most of their looks disapproving. I ignored them. Some of the girls had the new colored Nokias pressed to their ears, giggling at their conversations. Jocks walked past the cheerleaders, turning around to stare at their asses in the too-short skirts they wore daily. The particular pair of meatheads I was observing high-fived before one flicked the brim of white hat resting backwards on his friend's head with a too-loud laugh. The hat fell onto the tiled floor, and the boy picked it up and whipped his friend with it. The hats were ubiquitous, a mark of a true jock. I didn't bother to hide my disgust.

I didn't have a cell phone, only the upper echelon of the community had those, and they flaunted them. My mom had only invested in one when I started high school, needing one to contact me at home if she needed to stay late at work, which was becoming more and more often. She worked overtime constantly, struggling to support us and continue to pay the rent each month on our apartment. I had my own key to the place, and I took the bus home, much to my chagrin. Yes, I was a latchkey kid. Being alone wasn't a problem for me, though.

By 7:30 I was in homeroom, standing to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, after which attendance was taken. I didn't pay much attention to the morning announcements; I was poring over my physics textbook, memorizing photoelectric formulas and modes of radioactive decay. The information was ingrained in my memory, but I still felt better looking over the chapter in my book. I found comfort in knowledge; it was a form of mental protection for me. Being smart made me feel safe, even if striving to know everything had made me somewhat unapproachable. I felt successful and untouchable. Academics were the primary focus in my life.

The other students in my homeroom had far passed the stage of caring about schoolwork; summer was approaching, and that was all that mattered to them. It was a feeling unfamiliar to me. The school year lasted for 180 days, couldn't they relax when those days ended? I wasn't complaining, however; it meant less competition for me when we began to apply for college. That was all I really cared about at the moment. Being at the top. I wasn't the top of our class, but I busted my ass and I was in position to get there senior year.

A few cheerleaders in my homeroom sat in the back of the classroom, flirting with the jocks as they threw pieces of chalk at the blackboard. The teacher graded papers, taking no notice of them. Some of the other members of my homeroom ignored them like I did, but some watched wistfully, both boys and girls alike, wanting to participate, to wear a skirt or a white hat. It was sad, how they idolized these self-proclaimed "popular" kids. It only fueled their distorted confidence. Low chatter about an upcoming baseball game against Chatfield and the sounds of giggling floated from the back of the room towards my seat against the windows. I blocked it all out, trying to make it through homeroom without having a nervous breakdown about my physics test. I cracked my knuckles on my desk.

When the bell rang, I nearly jumped out of my seat, knocking loose papers from my notebook onto the floor. One of the jocks walked past my desk and kicked the papers, his Nike Airs squeaking against the linoleum.

"Spaz," he whispered, walking out the door with a snickering cheerleader on his arm. I knelt down to pick up the papers quickly, not wanting to be late for physics and not wanting to be seen by any of my homeroom teacher's first period students. Pissing my mom off and getting picked on had not made for a good start to my day, and my confidence wavered.

I tucked the physics book under my arm and walked out of the room quickly, not wanting another encounter with the pompous asses in white hats. Down the hallway I went, weaving between towering football players and heavy backpacks and mostly staring at my plain shoes. I ducked into the room I took physics in, smiling at the teacher who stood in the front of the room, shuffling tests. He smiled back as I walked to my seat in the back of the room, placing my bag on the floor next to me. Knowing that he would distribute the tests at the bell, I replaced the textbook in my bag and took out a pencil, a pen, and my pink eraser. I folded my hands in my lap while the room slowly filled with juniors, some yawning and nonplussed about the test, others frantically studying notes from the past few weeks. Those that were nonplussed about the test were either prepared or just didn't care; I assumed that the majority were the latter. I, however, was as cool as a cucumber as the girl first in my row took one from the stack of four and passed them back while the bell rang. I took my test and passed the last one to the guy behind me. I set the packet in front of me.

I filled in my name and the date in tiny, neat print. A girl to my left tapped my arm, and I started, turning to widen my eyes at her. She leaned back, alarmed.

"Chill, I just need the date. Do you know it?" She spoke quietly, not wanting to interrupt anyone or be accused of cheating.

"Uh, the twentieth," I stuttered. "Of April." Blushing, I returned to the test and began to work. She shook her head at my glaring unsociability, filling in the date on her own test.

The multiple choice was easy. I filled in the bubbles quickly and wrote my essays neatly and with as much information as I knew. My pen was slippery with sweat from my hands when I finished the last essay. The muscles in my hand felt cramped. I looked around the room, finding that no one had even started the final essay. I checked my answers once, doing a quick check that I had completed the test before walking to the front of the room to drop the papers on the front table. The teacher smiled at me again, silently commending my speed in finishing. He was a favorite teacher of mine, even though we had a virtually silent relationship that consisted purely of awkward smiling.

I cracked my knuckles, relieving the pain in my left hand. Having nothing to do for the remaining seven minutes of the period, I studied my nails and looked out of the window at the parking lot. The bell rang, and this time I was sure not to drop anything on the floor. I grabbed my bag from the floor and left class feeling extremely confident about my performance on the test.

I set my shoulders and walked to calculus. After calculus was English, and then Spanish, and then geography, where Mrs. Hagberg reviewed the research paper that would make up a large percentage of our final grade. The paper had been blown off in preparation for my physics test. Researching the breakup of Yugoslavia was making its way into the forefront of my priorities, and I was thankful when the old hag gave us the rest of the period to research in the library. We made the trek as a class up the stairs by the cafeteria, stopping outside of the library for Mrs. Hagberg to silence our chatter with a single finger to her thin, dry lips. I rolled my eyes. We entered the musty upstairs room and I crossed the gray carpet to the reference section, immediately locating the section on Yugoslavia. It was limited, but I got there first and took the books that looked the most promising, wrapping my hands around the spines of two nondescript hardbacks. Other students milled around the library, some researching their essay topics on the bank of computers, others searching in the reference section near me.

Crossing the library, I placed the books on the checkout desk and fished my ID out of my bag. I showed the librarian, and she typed my name in on the computer and scanned both of the books. She dismissed me with a curt "have a nice day," at which I nodded and turned to find an empty table. With ten minutes remaining before the bell rang for first lunch, I pulled my geography notebook out of my bag and opened it on the table in front of me. I opened the book to the facts page and created a bulleted list of demographics, physical geography, and culture. The bell rang before I had completed an entire page of notes, and the entire class fled from the library quickly, leaving a few stragglers, including me, behind. While I did have first lunch, I figured that missing it wouldn't kill me, and finishing it would give me more time that week to read and hang out with my mom. It wasn't like I had any friends wanting me at lunch anyway.

I continued to transpose the information from the book into my notebook, but I was quickly realizing that a comprehensive paper on Yugoslavia would involve some research on more recent current events. Sighing, I lifted myself out of the cushioned chair, leaving my bag unattended next to the chair, my notebook open on the table. The carpet absorbed the noise of my footsteps as I weaved between the mostly empty tables back to the reference section, where I knelt in front of the bookshelf and ran my fingertips along the spines of the books, looking for a more recently written one. My eyes scanned the shelves.

Though the carpet absorbed most noise, I felt footsteps near me, and I turned to find a cheerleader behind me, looking terribly out of place in her blue and silver uniform. My eyes found her long, toned legs first, and they ran from there up to her face, which was framed by a high, blonde ponytail, perfectly curled and bouncing behind her. Her forehead was wrinkled in confusion, almost like she was just as unsure as to how she had gotten to the reference section as I was. The row of shelves was otherwise deserted, and figuring I would leave the blonde to her own devices, I hastily found a book and stood in front of her, preparing to make my exit. I couldn't risk confrontation.

As I skirted around her, avoiding interaction, a long, pale arm reached out and tapped the soft skin in the crook of my elbow, and I whirled around to face her, immediately defensive; I took a step back from her and stumbled into one of the shelves, luckily not knocking any books to the floor. She didn't seem to take notice of my alarm. I waited for her to criticize me.

"Hey, I'm really sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for this book… and I can't find it," she said, looking into my eyes. Hers were blue, and they were beautiful. I recognized her, but only vaguely. I was sure she had to be a senior. I had never had a class with her.

I stumbled over my response. "There are computers for you to look that up, you know," I said quickly, hoping to end our conversation as quickly as possible. She toed the ground, biting her lower lip. I blinked, watching her motions, trying to figure out her motives.

"I don't know how to use the computers," she admitted. Blush colored her pale cheeks. I stifled a groan, and brushed some of my hair from my forehead, suddenly conscious of its placement. Dumb blonde jokes flooded my brain. I decided in a moment of genuine kindness to help her find the stupid book so she would leave me alone and I could finish my research before my lunch period ended.

I already had a preconceived disposition about cheerleaders, and she seemed to pick up on my annoyance with her.

"If you want, I could just ask someone else, it's no big deal," she tried, her posture tensing up as she prepared to walk away.

"No, no, it's fine," I sighed, running a hand through my thick hair.

_Be cool. Just be cool._

"What's the book?"

She held a small piece of paper in her hand, a yellow post-it. Squinting, she read from it. "It's called _Where the Wild Things Are, _by Maurice Sendak."

She struggled over the pronunciation of the author's last name. I was familiar with the children's book; my mother had read it to me when I still needed someone to tuck me in at night. It was completely lost on me as to why this dimwit cheerleader would be looking for a classic children's book in our high school library.

"Why do you need that book?" I asked curiously. I suddenly regretted asking, I knew she would find it weird that I cared enough to know.

She blushed again, unable to meet my eyes. "It's for my sister. She's six. They read it at her school, and she asked me if I could read it to her. I thought they might have it here, since this is where books are, you know," she rambled, trying to justify her reasons for looking for the book.

I raised an eyebrow, a small smile growing on my face. "I don't think they have that book here. This is a high school library, it doesn't really have a children's section."

She sighed, clearly disappointed. "Oh. Thanks anyway."

She turned on her white-sneakered heel to walk out of the library, but this time I stopped her, touching her arm, feeling bold on my home turf that was the library. The cheerleader turned to face me, and she smiled. It was my turn to blush and look away.

"You know, though, they probably have it at the public library," I said.

She frowned. "I don't have a library card. This is the first time I've been in this library this year by choice, why would I go to a public library?"

I laughed, and it echoed off of the shelves. The few patrons of the library craned their necks to peer at me around the shelves, and I blushed deeply, lowering my voice. The girl was smiling too, amused that I found her so funny. She was proud.

"I thought you looked out of place," I managed through a giggle.

This time she laughed, holding a hand over her mouth to silence it. We both smiled at each other.

She stood on her tiptoes to peer at the clock over the lower shelving in front of the reference section. It was almost 11:20.

"Well I have lunch right now, so I should go eat. It was nice to meet you…" she paused, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

"Oh, uh, Santana. I'm Santana," I supplied.

She repeated my name, and it rolled off of her tongue effortlessly. "Nice to meet you, Santana. I'm Brittany."

She stuck out her hand, and I took it, smiling at her ridiculous chivalry. I mean, who shakes hands in high school?

My fingers slid past hers, and her hand was pleasantly warm. We had maintained eye contact for a little over two seconds when I heard a pop, followed by another two pops in rapid succession. Startled, my hand slipped from hers, and I gripped my book tight in my left hand. I looked at Brittany.

"What was that?"

"I have no idea," she replied, backtracking a few steps to the end of the row, where she looked out of the windows, which were a few rows down.

"I can't see anything, but I thought it came from over there."

I nodded, agreeing with her. The other students in the library looked at each other, also curious about the odd popping noises. We both made our way to the other end of the row, back to the work tables, where students had stopped reading and writing to look around.

"Aren't they doing construction on the roof today?" she asked, glancing once again out of the library window.

"They might be, I'm not sure," I answered, just as puzzled by the pops that were still sounding through the hallways.

The floor below us began to buzz, and a stampede of students began moving in the cafeteria below, noisily making their way out of the lunchroom. Confused, I looked at the clock again. It was only 11:20; lunch wouldn't end for another twenty minutes.

I turned to look at Brittany, starting to ask her, as if she would know.

"Brittany, what-" but I was interrupted by a teacher running through the library doors, eyes wide and frantic, hair tangled. She had specks of red on her white shirt. I was beginning to full on panic as more pops began sounding from downstairs. Brittany and I spun around, bewildered. We glanced at each other momentarily.

She grabbed the phone on the main desk, punching the keypad three times. Even the biggest idiot would know what number she had just dialed. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and addressed everyone in the library.

"Everybody get under the tables! There's a kid out there with a gun!"

Too shocked to move, I looked at Brittany, who was looking at the teacher, shocked.

"I said, everybody get under the tables! Right now!"

The occupants of the library began to move slowly, tossing bags aside to move underneath the tables. I moved before Brittany did, subconsciously sticking my left hand behind me, my pinky extended. She wrapped her own pinky around it, letting me tug her to the nearest table. Forgotten, my book on Yugoslavia dropped to the floor with a muffled thump. Papers rustled as other kids pushed chairs out from the desks to crawl under them. I got to my knees and yanked my pinky from Brittany's, grabbing the chair in front of me with both hands, creating space under the table for both of us. I crawled under first, reaching out to pull her under behind me. I scooted against the board supporting the one side of the table, pulling my knees to my chest. I gestured for Brittany to crawl under the table next to me, which she did, mimicking my body position. Fear was evident in her blue eyes, which had darkened in the shadow of the table. I reached out for her hand, clutching it with my own, scared shitless. She held it, squeezing back, her knuckles paling against her already white skin. With my other hand I gripped a leg of the chair I had just moved and pulled it in so the front of it dug into my side, hoping to give the illusion that the underside of the table was unoccupied. I looked around to find that only one of the other tables nearest to us was occupied by a single boy. We made eye contact, and he looked just as scared as Brittany, whose death grip on my hand had not faltered.

"Santana, what's going on?" she whispered, biting her lower lip. "Why do we have to do this? What's wrong?"

"I think somebody is shooting up the school," I spoke, my voice trembling. Panic was settling in my stomach. "It's going to be okay, though. It'll be over soon and it'll be normal. It's probably just a prank, right?"

She nodded, believing me. I hoped I was right, for both of our sakes. We both sat silently, our hands sweating together, the only sound in the library being the sound of the teacher speaking into the phone. She was speaking quickly, panicked, just like us.

"Yes, I am a teacher at Columbine High School, there is a student here with a gun, he has shot out a window, I believe one student," she relayed into the phone, her voice steady, but faltering into a succession of "um's."

A student? It was a kid? It was real? I glanced at Brittany. She had her eyes squeezed shut and her head on her knees. Her ponytail hung over her shoulder. I had no idea if she was listening to the conversation the woman was having on the phone.

"I don't know what's in my shoulder," she spoke, becoming less and less collected by the second, "if it was just some glass that went through it." Her voice hitched.

Bile rose in my throat. Had she been shot?

_What the hell is going on?_

A burst of volume came from the teacher, suddenly. "I am, yes! I don't know who the student is."

I stopped listening, breathing hard under the table. My other hand found Brittany's shoulder, and I found myself parting her legs to pull her to me, needing someone to hold onto. Even this cheerleader who was a complete stranger to me was a someone, and I clung desperately to her. The gesture didn't seem unusual to me, given the circumstances. My hand separated her bare knees and my fingers squeezed her smooth calves, pulling her legs around my closed ones. She looked up at me as I pulled her to me and wrapped my arms around the starchy material of her uniform. Tears were spilling onto her cheeks. Tears began to prickle at my own eyes, and my vision blurred. Brittany's own arms wrapped around my waist, and I knew the position couldn't be comfortable for either of us. My back ached against the table. Brittany was breathing hard too, each breath thick with quiet sobs.

I rubbed her back with my hand, trying to comfort her. I didn't question the way we held each other; I just knew that it felt safe.

"Shh, Brittany, honey, it's okay," I soothed, and I thought of my mom. The tears began to run down my cheeks, and my heart was beating faster than it ever had. Brittany's body was burning against mine, and I thought of the silver cross that was hanging around my neck on a simple chain. I rarely thought of God, or anything, really religious, and wearing the cross had just been something I had done since I was a child; it was something that pleased my mother. We rarely went to church together anymore, usually spending our Sunday breakfasts in silence. Mama read the paper. I studied. It was easy, and it worked. But she was a devout Catholic, and at least once a month she would slip out of the house to confession or mass. I often felt guilty for not going to confession, or to Sunday mass, but it was hardly a priority. That had been another point of separation in my mother's and my relationship, but it was hardly one we spoke of. On the nights we ate dinner together, we said a simple grace that I had known from memory since the young age of four.

My science-minded brain was stubborn to accepting the fundamentals of the religion as I aged; the presence of a God, of heaven, of hell, it all seemed impossible. Now that I was consciously thinking about religion, about heaven and dying, the silver of the cross felt like fire, branding guilt into my chest where it rested. It was karma, out to get me. I would be killed and I wouldn't be able to go to heaven because I had ignored my mother and my religion and my life in general for so long. I was doomed.

More pops reached our ears, closer to the library. Brittany and I both jumped, and she let out a loud sob.

"Brittany, you have to be quiet. Please," I begged in a whisper, knowing that we couldn't draw attention to ourselves. It could be the difference between life and death, of heaven and hell, at least for me. She nodded, leaning her head on my knees. I rested my chin on the top of her head. I could smell her shampoo. The scent was something normal, unfamiliar as it was, and it kept me grounded. Tears continued to wet my cheeks.

Smoke began to fill up the library; it was low to the ground, and it was thick. I coughed into the crook of my arm as the fire alarms went off, and I thought that at least the fire department would come get us. If they didn't, we were going to be shot or burned alive.

Footsteps pounded in the outside hallway, stopping close to the library doors.

"Oh my God," I whispered. "Oh my God, not like this."

Brittany continued crying, soaking the knees of my jeans with her tears, and I worried for a second that I had scared her, but I knew I couldn't be the scariest one in that building right then.

The wooden doors to the library burst open with a bang, hitting the walls, and the person to whom the footsteps belonged stepped into the library, obscured by our limited visibility from under the table. Brittany started, her head jerking up from my knees and banging my chin. I saw the sob bubbling from her lips and clamped my hand over her mouth, silencing it. I could feel her tears run over my fingers. Her lips pressed into my palm, and she breathed hot against my skin. She looked into my eyes, and I into hers. I put a finger to my lips, looking sideways at the gray carpet, waiting.

And then a voice broke across the silence of the library.

"Get up!"

And then another voice, also male.

"Everybody with white hats, stand up!"

I didn't recognize the voice, but I knew what he was talking about. The jocks. I didn't hate them that much, but apparently this horrible person did. This couldn't be happening. My teeth were buzzing and my head was numb.

_This isn't real._

He wasn't finished yelling.

"This is for all the shit you've given us for the past four years! All the jocks get up! We'll get the guys in white hats!"

I listened for movement in the library, but heard nothing, only Brittany's muffled wet breaths into my hand. No one was standing. I didn't blame them. Smoke hung around the room, lowering my visibility. I could no longer see the boy under the table nearest to ours. The smoke had become too thick.

Now there were two shooters, not just one, as the teacher had told the 911 operator, and the identity that belonged to their angry shouts was lost on me. Recognition didn't even flicker across Brittany's face, and I realized that neither of us knew them. If it came down to it, it was likely they wouldn't spare us. They had no idea who we were, and the same went for us. And worse, Brittany was wearing a cheerleading uniform. That fact quickly became more apparent in my mind, and I realized that Brittany was technically a jock as well. I hoped to God that she didn't bully people as a pastime.

Briefly, I wondered if sharing a table with her had been a bad idea, but when her hands tightened around my waist, like she knew what I was thinking, the thought dissipated. She was keeping me safe, not putting me in danger. The room waited, breathing in the smoke of the unseen fire.

Then the voice was back. "Fine, I'll start shooting anyway!"

_Oh my God._

Brittany was full on sobbing into my hand, and I was finding it difficult to keep my own sobs at bay while silencing hers. Shots rang through the library. Wood splintered and the sound was deafening. I squeezed my head between my shoulders, trying to cover my ears without removing my hand from Brittany's mouth. Brittany's long legs were tense around my own, her too-short skirt forgotten and pushed to her hips by my own legs. This situation didn't call for modesty, and I was hardly paying attention.

There was movement again, and just like when I felt Brittany behind me in the reference section, I felt the vibration of feet pounding across the library, shooting all the way, and laughing.

_Fuck, they think this is fucking funny._

They shot at the windows, which shattered, panes of glass crashing to carpet. More distant shattering could be heard, and I assumed that pieces of the window had fallen to the ground below. I hoped to God that someone saw the glass and ran up to get us, to protect us. I held Brittany tighter, my hand still pressed to her lips. Her eyes were squeezed shut. We hid there together, under the table in the library. For someone that wasn't particularly religious in my daily life, I found myself praying and hoping to whatever deity actually existed. Whatever being was up there, I figured that there wouldn't be a better time in my life to start believing in it.

There were voices towards the front of the library, and more shots. These shots never hit the carpet. Brittany moaned, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. I frantically shushed her, putting a finger to my lips again.

Somewhere behind us, there were two loud slaps, and I assumed someone was hitting a table with their hand. Then a male voice spoke, quietly, maniacally.

"Peek-a-boo."

A shot. The splatters against the table were too much for me, and my stomach leapt into my throat. I was vaguely aware of the nausea that had taken over my senses. I dry heaved and gagged. My throat and eyes burned from the haze of smoke.

He was talking to someone, but I couldn't make out the words. My ears were ringing from the shots that were fired behind us, and my brain was numb. I finally removed my hand from Brittany's mouth, trusting her to be quiet, and I pressed my forehead to hers and breathed loudly through my nose. Her blue eyes found mine.

There was some more shouting, and the two were saying something about "blowing the whole school up."

I was slowly becoming more certain that these minutes I was spending with Brittany the cheerleader under the table in the library would be my last.

It didn't matter what I had gotten on my physics test. I wasn't going to college. Or getting married, or having kids, or ever seeing my mom again.

They were still laughing, firing shots left and right. Some of the bullets hit their mark, some didn't. It sounded like the shooters were moving chairs out of the way and shooting under the tables. I knew that they would find us soon; there was no way that the underside of the tables was dark enough to camouflage us. We couldn't hide. It was only a matter of time before they killed us. The footsteps came closer, and closer still, and then there were black combat boots in front of the table. I squeezed my eyes shut tight and leaned on Brittany, waiting for the face, or the shot. It never came. I tentatively opened my eyes, waiting for his face to appear, but he had gone. The boots were gone. He had passed us. I cried in relief, but I knew not to feel saved. I knew they could come back.

Each minute was an eternity, and each second a lifetime. My breaths were numbered. I cried. Explosions rocked the room, making the floors vibrate. It appeared as though they had explosives, too. Bombs. They would bomb us and kill us all.

Blow up the school.

_Why didn't I just fucking go to lunch? Why was I in the library today, of all days?_

And Brittany, scared shitless in her cheerleading uniform, picked today to go to the library, which didn't even have the book she was looking for.

It was sick and twisted. It was fate.

_Probably karma_, I thought.

They weren't stopping, and shots continued to ring through the library, accompanied by moans of pain. My lower lip trembled. I dug my nails into Brittany's back, and she returned the favor. I welcomed the sharp pains. They gave me something to focus on, to be distracted by. The fire alarms were still blaring, but I had tuned them out.

They were in a different section of the library now; fiction, I believed, and one of the murderers was having a conversation with someone. And then that someone was out from under the table, standing, running. The library doors opened, and their footsteps thudded against the hallway before the doors to the library closed.

These footsteps were not the combat boot footsteps of the shooters.

_Did they let someone go?_

There was more movement and more shots, and the thought was extinguished by the blinding fear that gripped me as tightly as Brittany did. Glass continued to shatter while they shot and explosions came from the exit. The minutes stretched on, and the shots subsided and there were only loud crashes, as if they were jumping on the tables or throwing things. Then it was silent. Eerily silent except for the ringing of my ears, and I assumed the fire alarm was still screeching, but I couldn't hear it. Brittany breathed into my ear, warm and uneven. Tear tracks were beginning to dry on both of our cheeks. Around us, people cried and moaned, in pain on the library floor.

Were they gone? I had no idea. They could be waiting for us all to stand up from under the desks so they could kill us. We didn't move for a while, and just sat there holding each other. Brittany was shaking.

Before long we were hearing shots below us, and I looked into Brittany's eyes, asking her if she thought we could make it out of the building, but not speaking. She shrugged, knowing what I was thinking. We could wait it out. They could come back. Endless possibilities flew through my addled mind, each striking new fears in my stomach. I thumbed the cross hanging from my neck, stunned and paralyzed. Unable to bring myself to leave the fleeting safety we had been presented with.

Suddenly there were footsteps, and then there was someone else on the floor with us, crouching behind the chairs that surrounded us, but the person hadn't sounded like the combat boot shooters. This person was wearing Nikes and jeans. He was huge, crouched there next to us, and I cowered into Brittany. He was quick to make his identity known.

"Hey, I'm not going to hurt you, it's okay," he whispered, pulling the chair out that was on my left. He poked his head in, and his forehead was sweaty. "I'm Finn Hudson, I'm a senior."

He stuck out his hand, offering it to me. It was the second time that day I had shaken someone's hand. I removed mine from around Brittany's and offered it to him. He took it, his meaty fingers dwarfing my smaller ones. His palm was also sweaty. I recognized him from the hallways.

"Santana," I answered. "Junior."

He nodded, glossing over courtesies. "We all need to get out of here. There are some people that are injured that I'm going to try to carry out. I need you two," he glanced at Brittany, "to get out from under this table and get out of the school. There are ambulances and police and people that will help you in the parking lot, I can see them out of the window. You will be safe."

I eyed him skeptically, looking him up and down. He had blood streaked down the front of his shirt, and it didn't appear to be his own. His jeans and his white sneakers were stained with spatters of red. Underneath his ruined gray shirt was a lump of something, something stuffed in his waistband. I pointed to it, scared, horribly gruesome thoughts plaguing my dizzied brain.

"What is that?" I asked him.

He looked down at himself and lifted the shirt, revealing a white hat. It was stuffed in his waistband. Right then, I knew I could trust him. He looked at me sadly.

"I knew I had to hide it," he whispered. "I couldn't… I couldn't let them…"

His voice trailed off, and he seemed to be at a loss for words. I didn't know what to say, either.

"Okay. I got it," I nodded, at a loss for words. "Which door should we use?"

He smiled at me, a small, scared smile, but it was warm nonetheless. I was listening to him. He reached for my hand again, and I took it, and he pulled me out from under the table easily. I stood up on shaky legs and began to turn my head to survey the damage done to the library, but one of Finn's massive hands found my cheek, blocking me. He forced me to look into his eyes.

"What the-" I swatted his hand away, rubbing my cheek where it had been.

"Don't look. Please don't look." He shook his head, dropping the hand to his side.

I followed his advice, tunneling my vision to the floor below, where Brittany was crawling out from under the table. She reached for me, and I grasped her hand with one of mine and wrapped my other around her forearm and pulled her to her feet. She dusted off her skirt, making eye contact with Finn. It appeared as though they knew each other. They nodded at one another, and Brittany had not let go of my hand.

Finn looked to his left, looking for others to help. He flinched, and I restrained from following his gaze, trying not to look. I faced Brittany, taking both of her hands and forcing her blue eyes to look into mine.

"Brittany," I said, "do not look anywhere in this building other than at me. Okay? Don't look." My voice shook, still disbelieving, still scared.

She nodded. Her eyes were wide in shock, like a deer in headlights. Finn started to weave through the shelves in the library, kneeling down at another table. Other people moved elsewhere in the library, standing from under tables. I looked at the ceiling while I followed the small crowd of people towards the library exit, forcing myself not to look down at the carnage I was sure covered the floor. The carpet felt soggy under my feet, and I ignored the nausea that erupted for the second time that day. Brittany trailed behind me, our fingers wound tightly together. I knew her eyes were trained on my back; I could feel them. Despite the impending danger that the shooters presented while they still roamed throughout the building, we all moved slowly through the double doors. It was only when the carpet transitioned to the familiar hallway linoleum that I began to speed up. Survival was so close. I couldn't slow down until I got there. I tugged Brittany's hand, and she seemed to understand, lengthening her strides to match my pace. The alarms kept shrieking.

I was first to the emergency exit, thrusting the door open with a push of my shoulder. We broke into the light on the west side of the school, other students stumbling out behind us. I squinted in the harsh sunlight; it was vastly different from the previous unknown amount of time I had spent under a table in the fluorescent-lit smoke-filled library. There was a squad of black-clad men in various positions of attack in front of us; each had a gun cocked and loaded, pointed at me, and then Brittany, whose hand I dropped. Having watched enough crime shows, I knew that we needed to show we weren't the shooters; we weren't threats. I raised my hands above my head, palms out to the sky. The team dropped their guns, waving us along the brick walls to the parking lot. Brittany reached for my hand again and I took it gladly, barely registering the chaos that was unfolding in Columbine's parking lot, which had looked drastically different when my mom had dropped me off that morning. Ambulances, police cars, and SWAT vehicles littered the bus lanes, preventing any cars from entering or leaving the parking lot. One of the men in black had waved over some medical personnel, who were guiding us to the multiple ambulances. Students milled around the lot aimlessly behind crude police barricades that had been set up around the school, unable to leave. Some parents had begun to show up, men and women in business attire parking in the grass by the school and running over to the parking lot in heels and dress shoes.

Brittany leaned into me, barely able to support her own weight. She was still shaking. I managed to get the two of us to one of the ambulances, where a man in a clean white outfit wrapped a linen blanket around both of our shoulders. The material scratched my bare arms, and the warmth wasn't appreciated as much as it should have been. Seconds later, the man came back, setting two water bottles on the floor of the opened ambulance before grabbing me under my arms and hoisting me into the vehicle. Still in too much shock to protest, he then picked up Brittany in a similar fashion and placed her next to me, securing the blanket around our shoulders once again. He unscrewed the caps on both water bottles and placed one in my hands and one in Brittany's.

"Drink," he urged. "You need to drink some water."

He held a walkie-talkie to his face, turning away from us to speak into it. I heard broken pieces of his conversation while I took small sips of the water, careful not to upset my stomach, which was still rolling.

"Yes, trauma victims…"

"The library, I think."

"No, minor wounds on some."

"Gunshot victims with St. Anthony's. Yes. Okay."

He turned back around to face us.

"I'm going to ask both of you a few basic questions, okay? You're safe now. Because of the trauma you just experienced it's completely normal to be in shock, so I'm going to ask you a few quick questions so we can send you home. I know right now you might not want to answer questions, but after I finish with you we're going to try to get you home right away."

Some policemen had already approached the ambulances, where they were writing on small notepads and speaking quickly into walkie-talkies.

Back at the exit we had come from, Finn had appeared, this time covered in even more blood. He was carrying a student in his arms, bridal style. The student was also covered in smears of red. Behind Finn came another boy of similar height and weight; he carried a girl, supporting her legs with one arm and pressing her chest to his own with a bloody arm. She, too, was injured. More medical staff rushed to the survivors, wheeling gurneys to the curb, where Finn and the other boy helped to lay the injured down. A policeman approached them and patted each boy on the back. Finn had removed the white hat from his waistband and was twisting it in his large hands, worrying the white fabric that had become ubiquitous to my high school.

An insistent tapping on my denim-clad knee snapped me back to the parking lot, where the same member of the medical staff that had lifted me into the ambulance was tapping my knee, trying to get my attention. I focused my attention back to him.

"Name?" he asked, staring at me intently with gray eyes.

"What?" I responded stupidly. My voice sounded thick and slow.

"What is your _name_," he repeated, eyes intense.

"Uh… Santana. Santana Lopez."

He nodded. "Okay, good, Santana. My name is Will; I'm a paramedic at Exempla Lutheran Medical Center. Who's your friend?"

His intense gaze had moved to Brittany now, who had not spoken since we'd left the library.

"Honey, what's your name?"

She just stared at him, her blue eyes blank, shocked.

"Can you tell me your name?"

She squeezed my hand hard. I waited for her to respond.

Will looked back to me. "If she can't tell me her name, I need to hear it from you. And then we might need to send her to the hospital. Do you know if she's sustained any injuries?"

"I-" I started, but I was quickly interrupted.

"Brittany! Brittany S. Pierce!" Brittany blurted, squeezing my hand harder, and I felt one of my knuckles crack. I winced.

Will looked between the both of us, hesitant to proceed. I wasn't sure what was going on with Brittany, so I leaned over and rested my chin on her shoulder so I could whisper in her ear.

"Brittany, you're hurting my hand," I whispered. Her grip loosened, but her eyes remained wide and blank. "This guy is just going to ask us some questions, okay? We need to answer his questions and then we can leave and you can go home. We're safe, Brittany, we're okay."

She visibly relaxed at my words. Her shoulders slacked, her eyes closed, and she breathed deeply through her nose. I could feel more of her weight on my shoulder, and I knew she was leaning on me.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."

I was the one squeezing her hand this time, hoping to reassure her. It seemed to work. Will was looking at the both of us.

"Ready?"

I nodded. Brittany mimicked the motion.

"I'm not going to ask any questions about the cause of the trauma, that's not my responsibility. I'm just here to make sure you're okay and that you don't need to be taken to the hospital. Okay?" He looked at each of us.

"Okay," I said.

"Alright, now Santana, can you tell me how old you are?"

"17."

"And Brittany?"

"17," she anwered.

"Alright, good. So you're both juniors, I presume?"

We nodded. "Okay, great. You're doing really well. Don't stop drinking that water."

I glanced at the half empty bottle in my lap. I had completely forgotten about it.

"Santana, can you tell me what you did this morning?"

All of the questions Will was asking were trivial and very weird, but I answered them anyway, just wanting to finish and go home. "I had breakfast, my mom drove me to school, and then I had a physics test, and then-"

He interrupted me before I could talk about the library. "And where is your mom right now?"

"She's at work," I explained. "She's a nurse at the UC Medical Center."

"Perfect, do you have a way to reach her? Cell phone, maybe?" He waited for my response.

"I don't have a cell phone."

He sighed. Brittany piped in. "I have a cell phone, you can borrow mine," she spoke quietly, angling her head so she could see my face. She twisted our fingers together.

"You have a cell phone?" I asked stupidly.

She nodded. "Yep."

Will looked at the two of us curiously, as if piecing together the nature of our friendship, and how sudden and immediate it was. He apparently decided not to question it, and moved on to repeat my questions with Brittany, who gave a detailed report of her entire morning. It was endearing, in a way, to my compromised mental state, how she released my hand to number each event on her fingers; the cheerios she ate for breakfast, how she got dressed, brushed her teeth, waited for the bus, took the bus to school, got off the bus at school, walked to her locker, and attended each of her classes.

Will nodded intently, hanging on her every word. It looked forced, but I figured he was well aware that you shouldn't interrupt a trauma victim. When she finished, she found my hand again, which was lonely and growing cold in her absence. She waited for Will to respond.

"Well that's… great. Sounds like a good morning."

"It was," Brittany assured him.

"Right. Well. Where are your parents, Brittany?"

"Mom's at home, dad's at work."

"Do you think you'd be able to contact your mom to come get you?"

"Yeah, definitely," Brittany answered. Meanwhile, I was panicking about how to get home. If I contacted my mom, it would take her at least 45 minutes to get to Columbine from Denver to pick me up.

Will and Brittany were both looking at me now. "Santana? How will you get home? I've been told that all of the schools in the district have been dismissed, but parents are responsible for getting their children. The buses aren't running."

"I… uh…-" I stuttered, thinking.

"She's coming home with me," Brittany interjected. She looked at me pointedly. "Right Santana?" She elbowed me in the ribs, not being discreet at all.

"What? Oh, uh, yeah, I'm going to Brittany's," I clarified. Will looked at us skeptically, but ultimately gave up on deciphering us.

"Alright, then I'm done with you guys for today. I have your names, and I'm sure in the next few days the police will be in contact with your families for witness reports. Keep an eye on the news."

He reached out to touch my shoulder. I stared at his hand.

"Be safe, girls. Please."

We nodded. Brittany cracked a small, grateful smile, the first one I had seen in what felt like years. "Thanks for the water."

He smiled back, a tired smile, and gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. "Now go home." He ran a hand through his curly hair and straightened his uniform while Brittany and I hopped out of the vehicle, our hands still clamped tightly together. She tossed the blanket back into the ambulance and tugged me towards the far end of the parking lot. We weaved through packs of students, and for once, none of them cared what I looked like, or whom I was with. Half of the students were crying, others just seemed frozen. Many were talking on cell phones. We reached the corner of the parking lot, and Brittany stopped abruptly before we reached the dead grass, causing me to stumble into her. My numb legs didn't stop me, and my cheek hit her shoulder and a sharp pain ran through my face to my ear.

Gunfire sounded from near the school, and I whipped around, lost my balance, and found myself falling into Brittany again, but this time my back was facing her. The SWAT team was shooting at the library windows, where fire was being returned. Brittany's strong arms were around me again, holding me up. I stood up quickly and backed away, leaving Brittany with her arms reaching out to me.

"Sorry," I mumbled, looking at the ground. Thank God Finn had gotten us out of that library.

Brittany ignored me, and stuck a hand through the neck of her cheerleading uniform. She fished around in her bra, and I averted my eyes, blushing. Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth, pink and wet. I forced myself not to stare, not wanting to embarrass myself. Her arm returned, and she was holding a red cell phone in her hand. She typed a number into the keypad quickly and brought the device to her ear. While it rang, she scuffed her white cheerleading shoe against the pavement. She reached out for my hand, and I took it, gladly.

Someone had apparently picked up on the other end.

"Mom? It's Brittany."

I couldn't hear the other end of the conversation. Brittany tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and thumbed the back of my hand that she was holding.

"No, something really bad happened. Mom, I don't want to talk about it right now. I can't."

Brittany sighed, blowing more loose strands off of her forehead.

"Yes, I'm okay. Can you please come pick me up? And Emily. Get her first."

Brittany squeezed my hand.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay. I love you too. Bye."

Brittany hit end on the keypad and dropped her hand to her side, the phone still secured in it.

"She'll be here in fifteen minutes," Brittany informed me. "And you're coming home with me. Here, call your mom and tell her. I know she works far away, but I'm not leaving you here to wait for her." She held out the cell phone to me. Bewildered by her forwardness, I took it in my right hand and stared at the numbers, willing my thumb to move. I typed in the number I had memorized many years before and held the device up to my ear while it rang. She picked it up on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Mom, it's me."

"Oh my God, Santana, we've been watching what happened on the news, the gunshots, they don't know what's going on, oh my God, I've been trying to reach you, but no one knows where you are, I was so worried-"

"Mom, it's okay, I'm okay," I cut in, simultaneously exasperated and comforted by her voice, but irrationally angry at her distance from me. "I'll tell you what happened later. Can you come home? Please?"

"Mija, honey, I'm trying, but-"

"You can't," I said flatly. Of course she couldn't. It wasn't the first time she had gotten stuck at work. Brittany's thumb continued to rub the back of my hand, following the curves of my knuckles. The sky started moving too fast, and bile rose in my throat. My own mother was deserting me.

"Santana, you have to understand. I can't leave, they're bringing in victims from the school." Angry tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. "Can you go to a friend's, or let yourself in at the house?"

"Yeah, I can. Whatever, mom. I almost got fucking killed and you can't come home for me!"

"Santana, I'm-"

I yanked the phone away from my ear and pushed the end button angrily, turning my head so Brittany couldn't see the tears in my eyes. She had just seen me cry for God knows how long, in the most frightening situation either of us had ever been in. But I couldn't let her see me cry now.

She replaced the phone in her bra and I felt her warm hand on my cheek. She pulled gently on my jaw, brushing a tear away from my cheek. Her fingers were warm.

"Santana, it's okay."

"No, it's not. She always does this. She has to help them, not me," I spat. I was being selfish, and I knew it. I still hadn't looked at Brittany, whose hand was still resting on my cheek.

"Santana, look at me," she demanded. I met her eyes, blinking back more tears. I was more embarrassed now than anything, and she sensed that.

"It's okay. You're going to come with me, and my mom will make you dinner and we can watch a movie with my sister."

"No, really, you can just drop me off at my house, I have a key, somewhere-"

Brittany opened her mouth to protest as I patted both of my pockets before realizing that my bag was still in the library.

"Fuck!" I yelled, stamping my foot. Pain shot up my shin, and I instantly regretted the action.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Brittany questioned, alarmed.

"My bag is in the library," I moaned. "I don't have my key, or my books, or-"

She shushed me with a finger to my lips, which I knew were dry and cracking. I began to protest, and I tasted the salty skin of her finger.

"Shut up. Mom's here, let's go."

Startled, I dropped Brittany's hand, suddenly conscious of what her mom thought of me. Of me holding her daughter's hand. A Buick with wood-grain side panels had rolled into the parking lot and was slowly making its way through the crowds to our corner of the parking lot. Other students were trying to leave in their cars, and a cop had taken over the role of traffic guard and was directing cars around the parking lot and onto the road.

The Buick moved slowly around the other cars. I turned to Brittany, and began to panic for the umpteenth time that day.

"Brittany, I don't know your mom. Or you, really. I don't want to bother your family." I was struggling to remember Brittany's last name. She certainly didn't know mine.

She looked at me, her blue gaze wise. "You won't, trust me. They'll love you, you protected me."

It was a 'p' name. What was it? Peters? Pearson? Pierce. That was it. Pierce.

"Brittany, I didn't do shit in that library."

But the blonde was already walking towards the Buick and I had no choice but to follow, my numb legs pulling me towards the car. Brittany had opened the door and was talking to the driver, who I assumed was her mom. She had the same blonde hair as Brittany, and her face was contorted into a similar worried expression that I had seen on Brittany's face just an hour before in the library. Brittany pointed at me, speaking to her mother. I wasn't close enough to hear what she was saying, but Mrs. Pierce was nodding, which I figured was a good sign.

Brittany walked back over to me and took my pinky in hers. The gesture was comforting.

"Don't just stand there, get in," she chided, smiling. How was she smiling? I was still numb.

I walked to the passenger side of the car and opened up the paneled door, sliding in to the leather seat. Brittany got into the car directly in front of me, and as soon as I was in the car, the cheerleader and her mother were turning around to address me.

"Mom, this is Santana. Her mom works in Denver, so she needs to come home with us."

I decided to interject then. "Thank you very much for taking me in, I would insist that you just drop me off at home, but my key is in the library, with my bag."

Mrs. Pierce appeared to be corroborating the events of the day, but she just looked more confused than before, and still worried. She sighed.

"That's fine, honey. But I expect a full explanation from somebody when we're at home, and when this one is out of the picture," she said, nodding her head at a miniature Brittany that was sitting next to me in the car, peeking out from a car seat at the commotion in the parking lot. I could only see the back of her white-blonde head, but I assumed that this girl was Emily. The same girl who had wanted Brittany to read _Where the Wild Things Are _to her. I shivered.

Mrs. Pierce had turned around in her seat and was putting the car into drive. Brittany found my eye in the rearview mirror and smiled grimly as we pulled out of the parking lot.


	2. Chapter 2

I would like to preface this chapter by addressing one particular review (user pleasegirldontyoudieonme) and by adding a warning to this story:  
The shooting is just a catalyst for a story of emotional development for both characters. I do not intend for this story to focus on the tragedy or on death or gun control, nor do I intend to offend anyone in the manner in which I use the event as a starting point for a potentially complex romance. I hope for this to be a love story, not a horror movie.

As a side note, any and all technical information regarding the shooting is accurate, but the following story is original. Thank you for all of the reviews, follows, and favorites. Also, cover image credit to both Dave Cullen and _Glee_.

* * *

The car ride was ridiculously short, lasting all of about five minutes. I rubbed a pattern into my jeans, feeling the heat from the friction burn my fingertips. Emily was the most talkative one in the car; she asked constant questions in a tiny, high voice, and Brittany answered every single one with a smile and a kid-friendly explanation. The near-death experience at the school had left me unusually sappy, and watching the way Brittany interacted with her younger sister was beautiful; the way the cheerleader told the six year-old about how the high school library didn't have the book, and how she would take the girl to the public library; the way she explained that something bad had happened at school, but in a way that stopped Emily from asking "Why?"

Brittany held her mother's hand over the center console of the car, a pale hand against an equally white one. I was jealous. I missed holding Brittany's hand, and I was jealous that Brittany had her mother and her sister when my mom couldn't be bothered to come home from work. I was jealous Brittany had gotten picked up at school. I was jealous that she was so calm when I could barely breathe.

The jealousy only mounted as we pulled on to Brittany's street, which I recognized as Caley Place. It was lined with perfectly manicured lawns, baby trees, and every driveway had a shiny, expensive car in it. I sighed. Of course Brittany lived a suburban life like this, with the family of four, the car, the cheerleader, the blonde hair, the blue eyes. It was all too much. We turned into a gray concrete driveway in front of a three-car garage, and I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. I lived in a town house, with a single mom. Who was a nurse. I was Latina. I had dark hair, dark eyes. I didn't even own a cell phone. I was so out of place in this neighborhood, with this family.

Brittany turned around in her seat and looked at me with those wise blue eyes, and I forgot it all. My stereotype of cheerleaders was rapidly changing. Either I had been completely wrong about the blue and silver clad girls, or Brittany was a major exception to my stereotype; all I knew was that with her, it was okay to be who I was. But that didn't stop the nagging in the pit of my stomach when we got out of the car, and suddenly I was hearing gunshots, and having flashbacks, and there was the blood on Finn's shirt, and I missed my mom, and I was barely out of the car before I fell to my knees and vomited on Brittany's driveway. I puked up the contents of my stomach, making horrible retching noises as tears flowed down my face and the concrete scraped my hands. Black spots obscured my vision and my throat and nose burned.

And then Brittany was rushing to me, holding my hair back, saying, "Mom, go inside, I got this. We'll be right in."

Her cool hand was on my neck, and she was whispering in my ear that I would be okay, that it would be okay. I was sobbing, embarrassed and sick and guilty and scared. Brittany's arms were around me then, and I knew I smelled like vomit. I knew I had known Brittany for a few hours, but it felt like years. I retched on the concrete for a minute more before I stopped and just panted, waiting for the spots in my vision to clear.

"Come on," she said. "Let's get you cleaned up."

She picked me up off of the driveway gently, brushing loose bits of dirt and rock off of my palms and my jeans. I continued to cry, no longer caring about her seeing this vulnerable side of me. She tucked my hair behind my ear and her right arm wrapped around my back, supporting my upper body. Her left hand found my left bicep and I leaned into her. Black spots still danced in my vision, and I didn't see much of the house other than tan siding as we stumbled through a blood-red front door. My stomach roiled.

There was a staircase to our immediate right, and ahead I could hear Emily's chatter and the metallic clangs of pots and pans, and I knew the kitchen was ahead. Even though the kitchen couldn't have been more than thirty feet ahead of us, Emily's voice was miles away. A TV hummed, the volume on low.

"Mom!" Brittany yelled, and I winced. She noticed and covered my ears, as if her makeshift earmuffs would protect my throbbing head. My hair felt like straw against my skin and her fingertips felt cool where they rested against my temples.

"We're getting changed!"

"Okay!" Came the reply, and then Brittany was helping me hobble up the carpeted staircase. The wall was lined with staggered photographs of Brittany and Emily and their mom and what I assumed to be their dad. There was another blonde boy on the wall, but he was only in a few of the pictures. It was difficult to tell which pictures in the frames were of Emily and which were of Brittany; they looked exactly the same at a young age. Brittany's house smelled like grilled cheese and lavender, and it was the strangest combination, but it was warm, and it smelled like a home should. It was a soft smell, if smells could be soft.

We were careening right, and I had to steady myself on a wall so my stomach didn't leap into my throat again. Brittany held me and waited.

After a few seconds, she asked, "You okay?"

I merely nodded, unable to choke out verbal affirmation. We were then in a blue room, with floral wallpaper and a simple iron-framed bed in the center against the far wall. It had a pink quilt on it. There was a table at the foot of the bed, displaying multiple pictures of Brittany in a cheerleading uniform. Brittany led me over to the bed, where I sat down and shivered.

"I'll be right back," she assured me, and promptly disappeared into the hallway we had just come from. I heard running water and I used the opportunity to look around the room. The black spots had disappeared from my vision, and I could see it more clearly now; the girl's bedroom was radically different from my own. It was large and carpeted, and all of the furniture was an antique white, including a stuffed chair that looked like it belonged in someone's grandmother's house or a baby's nursery. The artwork on the walls were simple prints of flowers, oddly placed at rather consistent intervals on the wall, and they all looked as if they were stolen from various motel rooms. It was strange. There was a window behind me, next to a large armoire, and the shades were drawn. The bed beneath me was neatly made.

Brittany returned to interrupt my surveillance of her bedroom, carrying a bottle of mouthwash, a cup, and a dripping washcloth. My nausea dissipated slowly. She smiled at me, her ponytail swishing behind her. She sat on the bed next to me, with one leg hanging off and the other folded beneath her. "Here," she said, patting the spot across from her. "Sit."

I pulled my legs up on to the bed and crossed them in front of me so I was facing her. I extended my arm to take the washcloth from her, but she pushed it down and leaned forward to dab at my forehead, my cheeks, and my mouth. The washcloth was cold, and it felt wonderful. Her pink tongue was at the corner of her mouth again, staring me down. I watched it, unable to look into her eyes. She was close enough that I could see every freckle on her face; there was one in the corner of her left eye, right on her nose, and another on her chin.

"How are you so calm?" I blurted, asking the question that had been on my mind for the last half hour. "After all that? I just vomited on your driveway and you're just sitting here washing my face."

She shook her head, smiling grimly. "I had a brother. He was younger than me by about two years."

My interest piqued, and I listened carefully to Brittany's use of the past tense. What did her brother have to do with any of this?

She sighed. "He died when I was eleven. He had Leukemia. Emily never met him, she was born right after he died."

"Brittany, I'm s-"

"Santana, I was eleven. It's okay. My family is okay. I still love and remember him, but you don't need to apologize." She shook her head again. I nodded, still uncomfortable. She continued to dab at my face and neck with the washcloth, brushing my now stringy hair over my shoulder. I still wasn't sure why she was telling me about her brother, and what that had to do with her calmness.

"His name was Michael," she sighed, "And when Michael died, my parents sent me to a grief counselor, because Mike and I were really close. The grief counselor outlined the stages of grief for my parents, you know, the ones they teach you in health class? And they were all like 'this stage will take about six months, and this could take a year, depending on psychological this and that,'" she said, waving her hands. The washcloth dripped onto the quilt, leaving wet blotches. "Because I was a child. And children that lose a sibling sometimes never get over it."

"But I just… progressed through the stages of grief really fast. I was just a kid, but I got it. I missed him. But I didn't deny that he was dead, or think that I could bring him back, I didn't get angry. That 'acceptance and resolution step,' the last one? I just went there, like right away. Because I knew that's… that's what he would've wanted. He wouldn't have wanted me to be sad, or angry, or hurt anybody. I could deny that this shooting happened." I winced when she said 'shooting.' "I could be angry at you for not telling me to get out of the library, which just doesn't make sense. I could be sad that people died and guilty that I'm alive and they aren't."

Tears were once again threatening to spill onto my cheeks. Brittany's blue eyes were squeezed shut. She was sharing a lot with me, really soon, and I knew that I was hearing something that not a lot of people got to hear from someone they just met. She seemed like an extremely open person.

"But I'm not," she said, opening her eyes. "I'm not any of those things, because what happened happened. It had to happen that way; I'm just accepting it. I'm not indifferent to it. But I know… I know Michael is up there somewhere," she looked up, "and he was watching down on you and me, Santana. And he'll help those people that died today, and, and-"

I cut her off with a bone-crushing hug, just holding her tight to my body. We were both crying now, and I whispered into her ear, "I understand. You're so strong, Brittany. I wish I was strong."

She hugged me back, letting me burrow into the crook of her neck, which was wet with a mixture of our tears. She laughed, but it was mirthless. "This world is kind of fucked up, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is, Britt. It is." The shortened form of her name was easy to say, and it felt friendly. It felt right. We just sat there for a few minutes, thinking and crying on each other. She didn't feel like a stranger anymore.

Brittany broke the silence. "When we were about to die, I thought, '_I'll get to see Michael again.'_" Her head was still on my shoulder, her blonde ponytail resting on her back. I couldn't see her expression.

I just held her silently as tears ran down my cheeks.

"When I couldn't speak back there, with the paramedic," she continued, "I was grieving, if that makes any sense. I was numb for a little while, but now I have to be strong. For you, for my mom, for Emily, for dad, for Michael."

I was startled by her ferocity. "Brittany, you don't have to do anything for me. This is more than enough."

She pulled away from me to look at me. "But don't you see, Santana? This is coping, for me. Being there for other people, not for myself. That's grief, for me. That's resolution."

The tears spilled onto my cheeks, this time threatening to land on Brittany's pink comforter. She brought the washcloth back to my face and patted my neck with it. I leaned into her touch.

"Let me take care of you," she whispered, but she didn't look at me as she said it.

"Okay," I nodded, watching her.

"Let's get out of these clothes." She peeled herself off of the bed and walked around to the wooden armoire. I took the opportunity to rinse with the mouthwash Brittany had retrieved from the bathroom and left on the quilt next to us. I struggled to steady my hand as I poured a small amount into the paper cup and tossed it back. It burned my mouth, and I nearly choked on it. It was strong. I gargled, letting the liquid bounce around my mouth to eradicate any traces of vomit, and spit back into the cup. I leaned over the foot of the bed to place it on her nightstand, mentally reminding myself to throw it out when we left her room.

Brittany returned with a small stack of clothes and tossed them onto the bed. I stared at her.

"Well? Did you forget how to put clothes on?"

I kept staring at her numbly. "I'm not wearing your clothes. That's ridiculous, you've done enough."

"You want to sit around in that all day?" she asked, pointing at my sweated, bled, and vomited-on shirt. I shook my head, accepting defeat. I knew I smelled awful. She reached out for me with both arms, still standing by the bed. Instead of grabbing my hand, she wrapped two fingers on each hand into the belt loops on my jeans and pulled me up off of the bed. As she pulled me towards her, I realized I wanted to stumble into her arms again. We'd been in each other's arms all day, and I selfishly wanted more. More of that safety, I told myself.

Brittany eyed my wide-eyed expression curiously. I choked and began coughing into my arm.

"You okay?" she asked, and I stood with my arms crossed, still red in the face.

I thought briefly that Brittany must be one of those people that recover from a situation by moving on with life, though she hadn't said that explicitly. She appeared to be coping by pretending that everything was okay and normal. I didn't know how she did it, and I certainly couldn't.

"Here," she said, reaching into the stack on the bed and pulling out a pair of blue plaid flannel pajama bottoms. She handed them to me. "These are old, so they're probably around your size." I took the pants while she rummaged around in the pile again, this time coming up with a long-sleeved white Columbine Rebels t-shirt. She then reached for the zipper on the side of her cheerleading uniform and unzipped. She took the top off, leaving her in the skirt and a bra. I couldn't help but stand there and stare, alarmed by her complete lack of modesty.

I shuffled awkwardly, pressing the borrowed pajamas to my chest. "Um, should I change in the bathroom?" I coughed again, but this time it was so I could use my hand to hide my blush.

"Why would you do that?" She asked, pulling her own blue Columbine cheerleading t-shirt over her head.

"Uh. Nevermind," I replied.

Not wanting to seem weird, I tugged off my blouse and laid it on Brittany's bed. My silver cross bounced against my chest as I quickly turned away from the blonde, not wanting her to see too much of me. The shirt smelled strongly of lavender fabric softener as I pulled it over my head. It was a calming smell. I pulled my hair out of the shirt and tugged the hem to my hips, where it sat loosely. The shirtsleeves bunched at my wrists.

My hands were shaking slightly, and I was still a little dizzy. I fumbled with the button on my jeans. I knew Brittany had to be finished changing. I felt her eyes on my back, just like I had when we left the school. My cheeks burned.

I quickly dropped my jeans to the floor, kicking off my plain brown shoes as quickly as I could. I quickly unfolded the pants and slid them onto my legs. The flannel was warm on the goosebumps that had risen on my naked legs. I leaned over to pick up the jeans. I folded them and placed them on top of my blouse on Brittany's bed and looked up to find her eyes.

She wasn't looking at me then, but she was facing me, toying with something on the table at the foot of her bed. I was still embarrassed about changing in front of her, despite using the girl's locker room to change for gym every other day. She was wearing the short-sleeved Columbine shirt and a pair of clashing navy sweatpants resting low on her hips, the drawstrings pulled tight. She grinned at me, and I mustered a smile in return. Her hand returned to the table, and I saw her put back the red cell phone.

"You should call your mom and tell her where you are, Santana," she suggested. "She's already called my number three times since you hung up at the school."

I sighed. I really, really didn't want to call my mom. She was busy. Talking to her would upset me.

"Fine, give me the phone," I said tiredly.

Brittany handed me the Nokia. I typed in the familiar number again and pressed it to my ear, waiting for my mother's worried voice to answer. After eight rings, her answering machine picked up, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I wouldn't have to talk to her.

After the beep I explained where I was and whom I was with.

"Hey mom, it's me. I'm sorry I hung up earlier, but we… we can talk about it later, when you get home. I met a girl today who invited me to her house for lunch, her name is Brittany. Her mom is here with us, and I'm safe. My key is inside of the school, so I can't let myself into the house." Brittany watched me, encouraging. "I guess I'll see you tonight. Call this number back when you can, I guess."

I hit the end button and handed the phone back to Brittany. The time on the digital screen told me that it was almost two in the afternoon. Brittany slipped the phone into one of her pockets.

"Are you hungry? I think my mom made lunch."

"Okay," I agreed. She nodded and walked out of the bedroom to the carpeted hallway. I followed her, passing the bathroom on my right. She bounded down the stairs two at a time. I descended slowly, glancing at the pictures of her brother in my peripheral vision. Sadness sat in my chest.

Brittany grabbed the end of the railing and used her body weight to spin around it. The dark stain of the wood was worn thin where her hand had held the banister. It was one of those things, seeing people move around their own house, that made you feel like you knew them better. Seeing the pictures on the Pierce's walls and the quilt on Brittany's bed and smelling the lavender fabric softener on Brittany's clothes felt personal. I felt welcome and familiar and safe in her house. It certainly beat waiting alone for my mom in our small townhouse.

Brittany took my hand when I reached the bottom of the staircase and led me through a white hallway to a well-lit kitchen. Mrs. Pierce stood at the stove, standing over what I believed to be lunch. The TV had been turned off in the adjoining living room. Emily was sitting at the counter eating a grilled cheese sandwich. Grease covered her tiny face and orange cheese oozed onto the plate. The appliances in the kitchen only appeared to be a few years old; they were black and shiny against the dark wood cabinets. The kitchen was painted a light green.

Both Mrs. Pierce and Emily both turned to smile at us as we entered the kitchen; one smile was tired and lined, but warm, and the other was sunshine and grilled cheese-filled. Mrs. Pierce turned back to tend to the sandwiches cooking on the stove. Brittany led me to the granite-topped island, where three high, dark, wooden chairs rested. Emily occupied one of them. I pulled out the chair on the far left and sat down in it, crossing my legs at the ankles and resting them on one of the wooden rungs below me. Brittany sat in the middle chair, brushing blonde wisps out of Emily's forehead as she leant on her elbows on the counter. Her left hand reached for mine under the tabletop and I took it, glad to have something to hold on to again.

I had never held hands with someone so freely in my life.

Emily's chattering from the car had subsided, presumably silenced by her sandwich, but Mrs. Pierce attempted conversation. She was clearly just going to dismiss the fact that I vomited on her driveway.

"Brittany, have you offered your guest a drink?"

"Oh yeah, sorry," Brittany smiled bashfully as her cheeks pinked. "Do you want anything to drink, Santana?"

"Whatever you're having," I answered simply, not too particular about my liquids. Brittany's hand disappeared from mine and she slid out of her chair. She opened one of the cabinets and removed two tall glasses, and I watched Emily eat as Brittany filled the glasses with ice from the freezer and water from the tap. I didn't realize the smile growing on my face watching this mini-Brittany eat until big Brittany was sitting beside me, displaying a toothy grin, watching me watching her younger sister. I hid behind my water glass, downing half of it in seconds. I hadn't realized how thirsty I was until the liquid hit my dry mouth.

Emily had finished her lunch and was clumsily wiping at her mouth with a napkin. She tried to slide out of the high chair the way Brittany had, but she slipped on one of the rungs. Brittany's quick hands found her waist, steadying her, and Emily smiled as she dropped to the wooden floor of the kitchen, her socked feet padding silently over to the stove, where she tugged on her mother's shirt. Brittany shook her head fondly.

"What is it, baby?" her mother asked, pushing the sandwiches in the pan with a spatula, a hand on her hip.

"Can I play on the computer?" she inquired, bending her knees and jumping a few inches off the ground.

"Of course," Mrs. Pierce replied, kneeling down quickly to plant a kiss on Emily's cheek.

Emily rolled her eyes, feigning embarrassment, but I could see the smile on her face as she ran out of the kitchen and into a room in an unseen location of the house. The room was quiet for the next few minutes. Brittany and I busied ourselves with our water glasses, and after a while, Brittany's hand had slipped into mine again. It was a familiar and comfortable motion, and I could tell by her expression she hadn't thought much of it. I smiled a tiny smile into the ice cubes from my glass bumping against my lips.

Mrs. Pierce had retrieved two plates from the cabinet and was flipping the sandwiches onto them. She placed a few baby carrots on each plate and placed the two meals in front of each of us. I smelled the fabric softener again as she leaned over me to place the plates on the counter. I dropped Brittany's hand to pick up the warm sandwich, and I lifted it to my mouth and sank my teeth into the melted cheese. It was delicious, and I was absolutely ravenous; similar to the water, I hadn't realized I was hungry until I was chewing on a bite of the warm bread. Brittany ate her lunch with seemingly equal enthusiasm.

Brittany's mother placed the pan from the grilled cheese into the sink by the stove and filled it with water. She turned around and faced us, placing her two hands behind her on the counter and leaning on locked arms. Her face was worried, her weary blue eyes sad.

"So," she prompted, interrupting our eating. Brittany watched her, mid-bite. "Can somebody tell me what's going on now?"

I watched quietly as Brittany finished the last bite of her grilled cheese and wiped the grease from her pink lips. She looked at me, and our eyes connected, brown on blue.

"And don't you dare dumb it down, Brittany Susan Pierce. I see that look," Mrs. Pierce said sternly. I found Brittany's hand and squeezed it.

Mrs. Pierce's eyes welled up, the sternness leaving her voice as quickly as it had come. "I just want to know what's going on."

Brittany's eyes were tearing up too, and she seemed at a loss for words. Her mouth opened and closed again. I figured seeing her mom cry was something that triggered a lot of emotion in her. So I started to speak, looking at Brittany for the okay. She nodded at me, and Mrs. Pierce looked to me. Her blue eyes were slightly darker than Brittany's, but they had the same nose. Mrs. Pierce was tall and thin and had smile lines around her eyes and mouth. Her blonde hair was graying.

I spoke slowly. "I was in the library, researching a project." I looked at Brittany. "Brittany was in the reference section, looking for _Where the Wild Things Are_, for Emily. But she couldn't find it."

That comment brought a small smile to the older blonde's face, and I was glad. The next events would be difficult to say out loud, and hard to remember. Brittany squeezed my hand.

"I told her I'd help her find it, but then there were… explosions, I think. Pops. Like gunshots, maybe, but I'm not positive. I thought it was a senior prank."

Brittany spoke, adding, "Yeah, me too."

"And there was this teacher, running into the library, you know," I said, "and she was grabbing the phone and calling 911 and yelling at us to get under the tables. And I had no idea what was going on." A lump had formed in my throat. "So we got under a table, and we were just sitting there, hiding." I omitted the part about Brittany and I holding each other; I figured that a mother might not want to hear about her daughter holding another girl she had just met, even though it was normal under the circumstances. Brittany seemed glad I had left it out, and I became curious why, but I continued my recollection of the events.

"And then there were these two guys in the library, shooting, and I knew they were killing people, you could hear it, and shooting under tables, and-" and then I was nauseous again, about to be sick and lose my grilled cheese, and I put my forehead to the cool countertop and my arms over my head and just breathed, stabilizing my head and my stomach. Brittany released my hand and rubbed my back, massaging my shoulder blades, seemingly comfortable to pick up where I left off.

She sighed and told her mother about the shots, and the splats, and the thumps, and the smoke and the smells and the bodies and the blood. Tears leaked from my eyes to the counter, and I didn't lift my head. Brittany didn't stop rubbing my back until her mom walked around the table and wrapped her in a massive hug, crying into Brittany's shoulder.

"I can't believe I almost lost you, baby girl," she whispered. "I don't think I could've lived through it." I lifted my head to see Brittany's mother breaking down in Brittany's arms, her tears soaking her daughter's shoulders. I sat awkwardly in my chair, watching them.

In that moment, I missed my mom like hell.

* * *

After Brittany's mother had peeled herself off of her daughter and wiped her eyes, she convinced the two of us to go busy ourselves while she cleaned up the kitchen. Brittany had taken my pinky and led me to a door in the white hallway by the staircase. We descended down another set of carpeted stairs, Brittany tugging me behind her as she took the steps two at a time.

We emerged into a finished basement with a relatively open floor plan; a flashing pinball machine caught my attention first where it occupied the closest corner of the room, next to a green ping pong table and a small counter with three stools at it. Two doors were set into the right side of the room, and in the far end of the basement was a living area with a large black leather couch, a flat screen TV, and beanbag chairs. Brittany led me around the ping-pong table to the TV area and plopped down on the couch, dropping my pinky as she sat. She grabbed the remote control off of the coffee table in front of her and pulled her legs up on the couch so she was sitting Indian style. I sat a few feet away from her on the long couch. I wasn't uncomfortable sitting right up against her; I wanted to, but I didn't want to make her uncomfortable.

I pulled my legs up in a position similar to Brittany's so I could tuck my feet under my pajama pants to warm them. Brittany flicked on the TV. The news was already on, but a familiar car commercial played. The CNN logo glowed red in the bottom left corner of the screen as headlines scrolled. I didn't read them. Brittany watched me.

"We don't have to watch the news, you know," she told me. "They probably know even less than we do."

I shrugged, shivering in my borrowed pajamas. Brittany noticed and rolled her eyes. Her weight shifted on the couch, and then she was directly on my left, pulling a large yellow afghan off of the back of the couch and draping it over the two of us. My feet were warmer instantly.

"Thanks," I said flatly, trying to muster up a smile. It never came.

"Do you want to watch this?" she asked, pointing the remote at the TV to show me she could easily change the channel. I shook my head.

"Leave it on," I said. "I need to know if they got caught. So I can stop being scared."

She nodded and tossed the remote to her side and resting both of her hands in her lap over the blanket. The commercial ended and went back to the news.

It was weird seeing an aerial shot of a building I had spent nearly three years of my life taking classes in. I could point out each individual wing of the school if I wanted to, and the cafeteria and the library and the exit we came out of just hours before. The shot zoomed in on the ground where there were much fewer students than when Brittany and I were at the school. A female news anchor then filled the screen.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if you are just now joining us, we are currently witnessing the aftermath of the largest massacre ever to occur on a high school campus."

_Massacre? They're calling it a massacre?_

The report cut back to the aerial shot of Columbine. The individual police cars could be seen blinking in the parking lot behind the barricade with the SWAT vehicles and the ambulances and Littleton fire trucks. SWAT teams filed into the building.

The voiceover continued. "The death count is rumored to be at almost thirty, but a complete total has not been confirmed by our sources." She glanced down at a sheet on her desk. "Parents of Columbine students and other schools in the area should call the hotline number below for more information on instructions how to proceed. Witnesses may be brought in for questioning." A number flashed across the bottom of the screen.

I looked at Brittany.

"My mom knows where I am, and yours does too; we can call later if we need to," she said. I nodded and turned to face the TV again.

The news anchor spoke while the hotline flashed. "The two suspects thought to be responsible for this massacre are both students from Columbine High School. The number of suspects and the identity of shooters and their whereabouts have not been confirmed, but authorities are now slowly evacuating the building. They are certain that both shooters are still inside. All schools in the Littleton, Colorado area are under lockdown."

I was speechless. I was disgusted. My hands shook under the blanket, and I felt lucky that the afghan covered them.

"President Clinton has made a statement on the matter-"

"Holy shit," Brittany whispered.

"-and is presently urging American people to pray for the victims of the shooting and their families during this tragic time. More information after the break."

The news cut to another commercial.

My stomach roiled again, but my eyes stayed dry. More tears just wouldn't come. It was almost as if I had cried out all of my tears and I just couldn't cry anymore. The news anchor returned to the screen and began to paraphrase the information we had just heard. The report showed live footage of our school being invaded by SWAT teams. Brittany moved in my peripheral vision, swiping the remote off of the couch and turning off the TV. Deafening silence abruptly filled the room.

"I don't want to watch anymore," she told me quietly. I shook my head.

"Me neither."

We sat on the couch, drinking in the quiet. My hands shook under the blanket. After a few moments of staring at the dark TV screen, I felt a hand tentatively rest on my leg. Slender fingers brushed the inside of my right thigh, searching for my own. I grasped Brittany's hand hard, desperately needing something to hold on to. Her palm was clammy, but warm. She rubbed circles into the skin between my thumb and my first finger. Our hands rested on my leg as I calmed down. My hands stopped shaking, but it seemed as though my heart only sped up. I felt Brittany watching me, and I glanced uncomfortably away, studying the many loose strands on the blanket in our laps. It crossed my mind that I had never touched someone this much before.

She rubbed the same spot on my hand and I slipped into a daze of barely conscious thought and ignorance and exhaustion. I'm not sure how long we sat like that; it could've been hours, or ten minutes. My concept of time had been radically distorted since the library. I still didn't know how long we had been under the table and I hadn't really thought much about it. Fog rolled across my brain like it sometimes did on the ground on those misty spring mornings mom drove me to school, obscuring the details of scenarios that I had been imagining since I had stumbled out of the high school. I felt like the fog was preventing me from seeing something, or getting to someone, or some conclusion. The fog was an obstacle. I was in a daze.

My eyes fluttered closed every few seconds, but every time they were shut I saw combat boots and blood against my eyelids. My eyes would snap open on their own accord, running from the fog and the tragedy burned into my eyes. Every one of my limbs felt impossibly heavy. I was sinking further into the leather of Brittany's couch, being swallowed by it. My head felt heavy and fog was rolling through it and I let my eyes close momentarily. After a few seconds I had drifted out of consciousness.

* * *

I was back in the library, under the table, and Brittany was holding my hand and rubbing the space between my thumb and the first finger. I couldn't remember how I had gotten back to the library, or why I was there, but before I could think too hard a faceless intruder was ducking under the table, holding a shotgun in my face, and panic was leaping into my throat as fear took over my senses.

_"Peek-a-boo."_

I shot up out of the couch with a scream, startling a dozing Brittany and gasping for air. Her grip on my hand had slackened, but strengthened again as she came out of her sleepy stupor. Sweat had collected along my brow. A pale hand came up from my side to cup my clammy cheek.

"Santana? Santana, what's wrong?"

I couldn't breathe. I choked and heaved and stuttered while Brittany searched my face with a concerned blue stare. Her hand nudged my jaw gently, willing me to look at her face. My chest fell up and down rapidly.

"Santana, it was just a nightmare. It's okay, you're going to be okay." She was so worried, brushing away tears that had begun to run down my colorless face. Her posture had relaxed and she was leaning towards me with the concern obvious on all of her facial features. Her lips pinched nervously and her top teeth worried her bottom lip. Her eyebrows knitted together.

I had stopped choking long enough to fall into Brittany, who caught me easily. She scooted forward on the couch to make our position more comfortable as I hiccuped into her shoulder. Her hands moved from my hand and my cheek to my back, where they rubbed my tense muscles. She whispered into my ear a practiced, "It's okay. It's okay," over and over again. It would've sounded rehearsed if I had been listening for it.

"The gun," I sobbed. "The blood."

"I know," she whispered, "it's all over. You're safe."

I cried weakly, burying my head in her neck, which was warm from sleep. She opened her legs to pull me into her. I let her, a watery sigh escaping my mouth as her legs wrapped around me. The afghan was long forgotten in a heap on the floor. Her hands continued to rub my back. Footsteps crossed the ceiling above us, but I barely listened to them. Blonde hairs tickled my face as I breathed heavily into her neck, which glistened from my tears.

"Do you want to watch a movie?" she asked, gesturing to the VCR under the TV with her hand. I nodded.

"Sure."

"Have you seen _Forrest Gump_?"

"No, is it good?" I kept my head on her shoulder.

"Yes. We have it on video. It's one of my favorites, because Forrest reminds me of me. I hope I'm like him when I grow up."

I smiled at that, despite not entirely knowing the premise of the movie. She gently unwrapped her arms from around me and let me lean back into the leather of the couch. She unfolded her long legs and stood from the couch, stretching like a cat with her arms high above her head. Her long arms found the afghan on the floor and she placed the heap on my lap. I straightened it out and placed it over my legs while Brittany walked towards a basket of tapes under the unit the TV was on. She took the video out of its casing and popped it into the VCR. She came back and sat next to me, haphazardly throwing the other half of the blanket over her own legs. A blue screen appeared, and Brittany hit play before inching towards me in what she seemed to think was a subtle manner.

I noticed and met her in the middle, leaning into her side. Her hand found mine again and squeezed. I squeezed back.

The title screens appeared, and a piano melody filled the room as a feather floated down from a blue sky and landed on a sidewalk in front of a man. I watched with interest as I found out the name of the man and his manner and his experiences, and I began to realize how alike he was to Brittany. Compassionate, but still simple-minded. His story was beautiful. I don't normally cry at moves, but there were moments when I wished the tears would come, just so I could have some normal emotion besides fear.

As Forrest was getting on the bus to go into the army, and he sat next to an unusual looking black boy, Brittany grabbed the remote off of the coffee table hastily and began to fast-forward, her thumb pressing hard against the button.

"What are you doing?" I asked, wanting to get lost in the distractions the movie provided.

"I don't like this part," she lied. I knew she was lying, because it was one of the first times that day she refused to make eye contact with me. I didn't like liars.

"Brittany, really, why are you fast-forwarding?"

"Bubba gets shot," she said simply. "It's scary and bloody and I'm not watching it, okay?" She turned and looked at me, her eyes serious and intense.

"Okay," I said dumbly. "Thanks."

"Anytime," was her reply. Her thumb kept pressing.

She fast-forwarded for a long time, until Forrest was in the hospital playing ping pong. The images on the screen were stretched and distorted, but there were split seconds where I saw red. The VCR whirred. Satisfied that we had passed the war scenes, Brittany replaced the remote on the table and relaxed back into the couch.

When Forrest sees Jenny again, and meets his son, the smile on Brittany's face was so wide I thought her cheeks would break. It really was her favorite movie; that was clear to me. I did find the movie amusing, especially Lieutenant Dan, who reminded me of me in some twisted way. I found myself on the verge of laughing more than once, but I think Brittany and I both understood that it would be hard for me to laugh so soon. Brittany didn't laugh, either, but her smiles were enough. The movie was a worthy distraction, and I was grateful to Brittany for suggesting we watch it.

The backs of my eyes prickled with unshed tears when Jenny died, and Brittany squeezed my hand. After the movie ended, the credits rolled and the piano played again. We sat on the couch for a few more minutes, listening to the sounds of the house. The digital clock on the receiver below the TV told us that it was almost five. Emily's tiny feet padded overhead, and then a door was opening and another person was entering the house.

Brittany looked at me with a smile. "That's my dad," she said. "Come on, you have to meet him, he'll like you."

Of that I was unsure; most adults found me quiet and sometimes smart if they got to know me, but rarely did they genuinely like me. I doubted her reasoning. But the leggy blonde was leaping from the couch, discarding the blanket on the floor in a yellow pile, and tugging on my pinky to help me off of the couch. I stood quickly and blood rushed to my head as I followed a skipping Brittany to the stairwell, where she grabbed the post at the bottom of the banister and spun onto the stairs. I took faster steps to match her longer ones, and we were soon out of the basement and in the main hallway again. The kitchen light was on, and indistinguishable voices bounced down the walls. Brittany dropped my pinky as we reached the kitchen, and I frowned.

A man in a wrinkled black suit was standing near the counter, speaking lowly to Mrs. Pierce, whose back was to us. Emily hugged his leg. He didn't see us at first, and it soon became more obvious what they were talking about.

"Alan, not right now, Emily is in here, and they're-"

The man stopped talking when he noticed me and Brittany and he rushed towards her, pulling her into a massive hug. He was rather tall, at least a foot taller than me. He picked up his daughter easily. Emily had released her hold on his leg to stand next to her mother. I assumed that Alan was this man, Mr. Pierce. He petted Brittany's hair and held her tightly, closing his eyes and sighing.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too, Daddy," Brittany replied calmly as her father replaced her on the ground.

"And you must be Santana," he said, looking to me. His eyes were green, and his light hair was receding. I stuck out my hand.

"Santana Lopez," I confirmed. His larger hand engulfed mine and we shook.

"Alan Pierce. It's a pleasure to meet you. Will you be staying for dinner? I brought pasta," he said with a sweep of his arm to the kitchen counter. "I picked it up on the way home."

Silver tins sat stacked on the counter next to a large brown paper bag.

"Thank you so much," I told him as he released my hand. Brittany stood on my right. "Thank you for everything. It means a lot."

"Of course, honey," Mrs. Pierce smiled kindly, the wrinkles around her eyes becoming more prominent. "Any friend of Brittany's is welcome here." She ran her fingers through Emily's white blonde hair.

Mr. Pierce clapped his hands together. I flinched at the sound, and Brittany was the only one who seemed to notice. She sent me an apologetic glance.

"So who's hungry?" he asked. "Because I'm starved."

"Alan, the girls just ate a few hours ago," Mrs. Pierce said, stopping her husband from serving dinner.

"I don't care, Eleanor, they can eat now or later, but I'm hungry," he replied. Mrs. Pierce removed her hands from his broad shoulders and shrugged at us, as if to say, 'That's men.' Brittany grinned. I looked at the floor.

The pasta was heaped onto serving plates, steaming. I wasn't hungry. A plate of breadsticks was placed on the kitchen table, which was a simple rectangular dining table in more spacious right side of the kitchen. It was positioned right in front of a large window that overlooked a small, grassy backyard that backed up to a hill covered in trees. It was still sunny out, so the light above the table was not turned on. Brittany and I sat next to each other with our backs to the window. A glass of water, silverware, and a plate were in front of five of the six places at the table. Mr. Pierce sat at the head of the table, with his wife next to him and their youngest daughter on her left. Brittany sat on my left, to Mr. Pierce's right. He picked up the first plate of pasta and began to scrape it onto his own plate. Mrs. Pierce took another plate of pasta and began to do the same for Emily. I took a single breadstick and declined when Brittany offered one of the plates of pasta to me. She shrugged and served herself a small portion.

Mr. Pierce leaned back into his seat, where his suit jacket was draped. He ate quickly. Brittany mostly pushed around her small helping of pasta, eating tiny bites every so often. Mrs. Pierce made small talk with her husband about work. I gathered that he worked in business communications. Emily talked at Brittany about her day at school, but Brittany seemed distracted. Emily was oblivious to it. About midway through the meal, something brushed against the side of my left foot. I realized that it was Brittany's foot and glanced at her to see if she had noticed. Her mouth was full of pasta, and spaghetti sauce was smeared across her cheek. She smirked.

I shook my head and suppressed a smile as I bit off another small piece of breadstick and washed it down with a sip of water. Brittany's foot brushed against mine again, and a tingle shot up my leg, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I shivered. Everyone at the table kept eating, including Brittany. I played with my fingernails under the table.

A few minutes later, I hesitantly reached out and poked Brittany's foot with my big toe. She smiled wide, a forkful of spaghetti in her mouth. I blushed into my water glass. Mrs. Pierce and Mr. Pierce had finished their meals and were clearing the table.

"Santana, are you sure you aren't hungry?" Mrs. Pierce asked me, picking up the tray of breadsticks from the table. "There's plenty of pasta left, you hardly ate any."

"I'm fine, really," I insisted. "I'm still full from lunch."

"Okay," she conceded, picking up a serving dish half full of pasta in her other hand and walking back into the kitchen area. Brittany's foot poked mine. This time I couldn't contain the grin that pushed to my lips. Brittany's own grin was triumphant as she picked up her empty plate from the table and carried it to the sink. I followed with my own, placing it next to hers in the kitchen sink, where Mrs. Pierce had begun to wash the dishes and Mr. Pierce stood next to her, dishtowel in hand, ready to dry.

"Santana, have you talked to your parents recently?" Mrs. Pierce asked, scrubbing a plate.

"I left my mom a message a few hours ago," I told her. "To let her know where I am and that I'm safe. But I should probably call her back."

"Yes, you should. She should be able to come home from work soon, right?"

I nodded, but I wasn't entirely sure. "I think so."

Mr. Pierce joined the conversation. "You said she works in the city?"

"Yeah, she does," I replied. "At the UC Hospital."

"Okay, I know where that is," he told me, placing a clean plate in a cabinet to his right. "I just commuted back from Denver, traffic is a bitch."

"_Alan,_" Mrs. Pierce scolded. She looked to the counter to see if Emily had heard.

"Sorry, a bear," he corrected with a wink. I smiled a tiny, close-mouthed smile. Mrs. Pierce shook her head. "Tell her to keep that in mind. I think everyone's parents are trying to commute back from the city right now," he explained.

I nodded. "Do you want to go call her from my room?" Brittany asked from her position on my right.

"Yeah, sure," I said, turning to follow Brittany out of the kitchen.

"Tell her about that traffic!" Mr. Pierce called from the kitchen, his voice filling the hallway as Brittany led me back up the stairs, her hand finding that same spot on the banister. It came to my attention that it was one of her quirks. She shook her head at her father's persistence.

We were back in Brittany's room in less than half a minute, and Brittany turned on the lamp that rested at the foot of her bed. Late afternoon light filtered in through Brittany's window. I sat on her bed next to her, avoiding the stack of my clothes that I had worn during the school day. We both sat the same way we had on the couch, but we were facing each other, so our bare feet were touching. Goosebumps rose on both of my legs as they tingled. The feeling was satisfying, in an electric way.

Brittany fished the red cell phone out of one of her sweatpants pockets and pressed it into my opened palm. She leaned back on her elbows, the navy material of the sweatpants stretching across her crotch to accommodate the new position. I took the phone and typed my mother's number for the third time that day.

I made eye contact with Brittany, and she gazed back at me with crisp blue eyes. Neither of us blinked. I listened to the phone ringing. She picked up on the second ring.

"Mom, it's me."

"Thanks for calling, mija. I'm just getting ready to leave work," she told me. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had missed her voice more than I realized. I blinked, breaking the stare Brittany and I had been holding.

'_You lose,'_ she mouthed, blinking and curling her mouth into a smug grin. I shook my head and rolled my eyes, smiling shyly at her.

"Santana?" My mother was asking.

"Oh, sorry, what?" I replied, putting my hand up in front of me to shush Brittany, who fell backwards onto the quilt with a thump and an exaggerated sigh.

"I was asking if you knew the address of Brittany's house," she restated. "I'll be able to pick you up in about an hour or so."

"Okay, good," I said. "Let me ask her."

I covered the phone with my hand and asked Brittany what her address was. Brittany told me and I repeated the information into the phone.

"Alright, thank you, Santana. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I said, quietly. "I'll be alright. I just want to see you."

"Me too. I'm so glad you're safe," my mom told me, and I could hear her getting choked up.

"I know, mama. I'll see you soon, okay? Come home quickly," I said into the phone.

"I'm leaving right now. Goodbye, Santana, I love you."

"I love you too, mama." I hit the end button and tossed the phone onto Brittany's stomach. She caught the device before it hit her and slipped it back into her pocket.

"That was easy, right? Will she be here soon?" Brittany asked.

"She's on her way," I told her.

Brittany smiled. "Did you tell her about the traffic?"

"Oh no!" I faked exasperation and slapped my hand to my forehead. Brittany giggled at my joke and sat up quickly, wrapping her arms around my middle and uncrossing her legs in one motion. She pushed me onto the bed, pinning me down. Her body hovered over my own. I blinked up at her, and the tingling raced over my body. The entire thing happened in less than two seconds. She grinned.

"I should punish you for that," Brittany said, holding her body in a catlike stance above my own. A sliver of pale, taught skin revealed itself below her t-shirt. She saw me looking, and my heart thundered in my chest while I caught my breath. I waited for her to do something, but I wasn't exactly sure what she was doing. While I was thinking, she dropped her entire weight on me and began to tickle my stomach mercilessly.

I shrieked with laughter and tried to roll her off of me as I tossed my head back and pushed at her shoulders. She continued to tickle me, moving from my stomach to my underarms and my sides. I tried to roll out from under her, but she followed me where I went, her long fingers rubbing at the fabric of the borrowed t-shirt.

"Brittany!" I gasped for air. "Stop it!"

She laughed like a maniac. "I got you to laugh!" She stated triumphantly, rolling off of me to lie at my side on the bed. "I thought you never would!" Her feet touched the headboard and she rolled onto her left elbow, propping her head on her hand. I ignored her stare and continued gasping. I hadn't been tickled in years, but I was absolutely still victim to uncontrollable laughter when I was. At least that hadn't changed with age.

Brittany was still watching me, a smug smile on her face, proud of herself for making me laugh.

"I like you," she said abruptly. Her blue eyes blinked.

I turned my head to find her eyes. "I like you too," I told her. I honestly did, I concluded. I liked Brittany Pierce. It had been a while since I had made a friend, or even had a decent friendship. "We should be friends."

"I thought we already were," she remarked, but the smile on her face told me there was no hostility accompanying the statement. I couldn't help but smile back. Brittany fell back onto the bed, bringing her arms back to her sides. We both looked at the white ceiling as the daylight faded from the room.

"I'm glad you think so," I said. "Can I tell you something?" I hadn't meant to have such a deeply emotional conversation before I left Brittany's, but I felt obliged to tell her what I was thinking. She was my friend now.

"Yeah, sure," Brittany said casually. I didn't look over at her, but I knew she was relaxed on the bed. Her breathing was even.

"I feel safe with you. I have since earlier today, and I want to be able to keep feeling safe," I explained, keeping my hands palms down on the bed. I knew I was rambling, but Brittany didn't speak up to stop me, she just listened. "So like… would it be cool if we hung out sometime this week? Like soon?" I knew I sounded desperate, but I wasn't sure what I would do if I went home and had a nightmare. My mom certainly wouldn't be of much help. I felt like I needed Brittany; I needed to touch her, to be next to her, to talk to her. I knew that I would be alone in the house for the next few days. I highly doubted we would go to school tomorrow, or even the rest of the week, even though it was only Tuesday. And I also highly doubted that my mom would be able to take off of work for those three days.

"Of course," she told me, and I relaxed instantly. Knowing I would see her again was comforting. My heart felt less heavy. Her fingers brushed my right hand and I stilled them, intertwining my fingers with her longer ones. Her hand was warm. I sighed, content.

"How can I call you?" I asked suddenly, trying to work out the details of our next meeting in my foggy head.

"Hold on," she told me, releasing my hand and rolling off of the bed. She walked over to the table at the foot of her bed. Missing the warmth of her hand, I settled for the warm spot on the comforter. I casually rolled onto my stomach into the area where she had just left and propped my head up in my hands so I could see where she was going. She took a pen out of a mug full of pens and pencils and took a pink post-it note from a stack by her lamp. She clicked the pen once and began scribbling on the post-it that rested in her palm. I watched her write, studying the creases in her forehead while she scribbled down her contact information.

She walked back over to the bed and sat down by my side, folding her legs beneath her and handing me the post-it. I took it and looked at it, observing her bubbly handwriting. Her number was on the page under her name.

"Why did you write your name?" I asked. "I'm pretty sure I won't forget it."

"Sometimes I forget my middle name," she said honestly, her expression serious. "It happens."

I watched her expression, waiting for a smile, or even a "just kidding," but neither came.

"Right," I said, drawing out the 'i' sound. She nodded seriously. I folded the paper in my hand and placed it on top of my clothes.

"Should I change back into those?" I asked, pointing at the stack. The idea sounded extremely unappealing.

Brittany shook her head. "No, of course not. I'll see you soon, right? You can give me the clothes then."

I nodded. I was glad not to be wearing my clothes from earlier in the day, and I was glad to have a legitimate reason to see Brittany again. I would wash her clothes as soon as I had time at home, which would probably be tomorrow.

The silence that followed our short conversation was clumsy and awkward; we had neither my tears, or _Forrest Gump_, or Brittany's family to distract us, and now I wasn't sure what to say to Brittany. She seemed at a loss for words as well, and we sat in silence. A little while later she reached for my hand, looking into my eyes, and I swore she could see the happiness I found in the simple gesture. Her thumb rubbed the spot on my hand she had been paying attention to earlier in the day. I smiled.

Before long the doorbell was ringing through the house, and Brittany jumped at the noise. We both got off of the bed, the shift in weight causing the mattress to creak in its frame. I scooped my clothes and the phone number post-it into my arms and pulled my shoes onto my bare feet while Brittany waited for me at the doorway. Feeling absolutely ridiculous in my shoes and flannel pajama bottoms, I descended the carpeted stairs after Brittany for the second time that day and emerged onto the first floor to find my tiny mother with her arms locked around Mrs. Pierce in a massive hug.

"Thank you," she was telling her. "For keeping my baby safe."

Mrs. Pierce was hugging her back. "You're welcome," she said, and then repeated it. "We're lucky to have her."

My mother wiped a tear from her eye. She had never been an affectionate woman; compliments from her were blunt and hard to come by, sounding insincere to anyone who didn't know her. She rarely hugged me. I assumed that my tendency for affection after tragedy was hereditary; I had never been as touchy-feely with anyone before, and I had never seen my mother like this. It was an unusual sight to witness.

Mama finally realized I had entered the room, and quickly crossed the small foyer to wrap her arms around me. The hug was stiff and unfamiliar, but still welcome, and I found that tears had begun to collect in my eyes. She was shorter than I was, her head only coming up to my chin. She rested her head on my shoulder as she hugged me and I breathed in her familiar perfume and the slight antiseptic smell that always hung around her after work. It was different from the lavender smell of the Pierce home, but it was pleasant nonetheless. I welcomed the comforting smell.

"I'm so glad you're safe," she whispered into my ear. "I love you, Santana, I'm so sorry this happened," she breathed, tears from her cheeks spilling onto my shoulders.

"It's okay, Mama," I told her.

She seemed to realize that there were other people in the room and she stepped back to hold one of my wrists at arm's length, reluctant to let me go. She straightened her scrubs.

"Please say thank you," she told me, her voice regaining some of its sterner edge that I had grown up listening to.

"Thank you, Mrs. Pierce. And Brittany. For the clothes, for the food, for everything. I feel very lucky," I told the two blondes, who were now standing shoulder to shoulder. Brittany was a few inches taller than her mother. I looked between the two, from one pair of blue eyes to the other.

"You're always welcome here," Mrs. Pierce told me. "We would love to have you back."

Brittany smiled at me, nodding to show her agreement with her mother's invitation. I didn't think when I approached her to hug her; I only knew that I needed to. She was a good hugger; her arms encircled my waist, bringing my body to hers, and my arms found her neck as I pressed my face into her shoulder.

"Thank you," I whispered, so that only she could hear. "I'll see you soon."

"Definitely," she whispered back, and I pulled away, smiling at her. She smiled back.

"Are you ready to go, Santana?" my mother asked. "Do you have everything?"

"Yes," I replied, walking back to stand next to my mother. Her bony hand wrapped itself around my right wrist. Her touch wasn't as comforting as Brittany's.

"Thank you again," my mother told Brittany and her mother, who opened the door to usher us out. My mother's car was parked in the street in front of Brittany's house. We walked down the sidewalk to the street and got into the car, where I leaned my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes.

My mother got in after me and buckled her seatbelt. Her hands shook as she turned the key in the ignition. She gripped the wheel with white knuckles, steeling herself.

"I can't believe this," she said. "I can't believe this happened to you, to that school, to those kids."

I shook my head, twisting my hands in the fabric of Brittany's shirt. My own clothes rested on my lap, the pink post-it on top.

She put the car into reverse and pulled out of Brittany's street and onto Pierce Street. We only lived about five minutes from Brittany's house; it could be considered walking distance, if you really wanted to walk; the distance was only a mile. That day, Pierce Street was packed with news vans and a helicopter flew above us. My house was further than the school from Brittany's, so we drove south. This car ride wasn't as quiet as the one from that morning.

"Have you seen any of the news?" my mother asked me, glancing at me briefly before returning her line of sight back to the crowded road.

"A little bit. What's going on? Where are the shooters?"

She glanced at me again, remaining silent.

"They shot themselves," she said darkly. "Fucking cowards killed themselves in the goddamn library."

I was appalled. All of that, all the talk of blowing up the school, and that's it? They committed suicide? Had it been planned like that all along?

"How many people died, mom?" I asked, fearing her answer.

She paused. "They think it's thirteen, but they haven't finished going through the school yet. And then the two killers deaths, so that makes fifteen."

Part of me believed that the way they ended their lives was cowardly; they didn't want to live to face the justice system. Another part of me was relieved that they were dead, relieved to know that they would no longer be on the earth to hurt anyone. Not me, or Brittany, or my parents. A separate, compassionate part of me broke down when I heard the number of deaths. It was irrational for me to believe that everyone could have survived, but it was sickening to know that what happened in the library was real and as terrible as I had thought. I immediately felt sympathy for those students and their families.

"Santana, where were you when it all happened?" she looked at me, her eyes searching my face for some reaction.

"The library," I whispered.

Her face paled, becoming ashen. I knew she had to have seen it on the news, all of the murders in the library.

"What?" She stuttered, paling further still.

"The library, mom. I was in the library, hiding under a table with Brittany while they ran around and shot under the fucking tables." I hadn't realized I raised my voice, but I yelled at her through tears that were running down my face. I cried into my hands, pushing at my eyes with balled fists to make the memories go away.

"Oh my god," she whispered. "You could've… you could've…" She trailed off, her words replaced with tears that were running down her face.

She couldn't even say it. I didn't want her to.

We pulled into the driveway and my mom fumbled with her key at the side door while I waited behind her. We entered the dark house, and she immediately flipped on the living room light and dropped her bag next to the door. She sat down on our dated couch and held her head in her hands. Her tiny frame shook with quiet sobs. I sat down next to her and tentatively placed my hand between her shoulder blades. I rubbed her back, hoping to calm her in the same way Brittany had calmed me down in her kitchen at lunch. I had never seen my mom so weak and helpless, and I was scared.

_She should be comforting me,_ I thought. Like Brittany had. I already missed Brittany; her hair, her smile, her touch, her voice, her eyes. Everything. I looked at the post-it on top of my clothes, which I had placed on the floor next to the couch. I wanted to see her again.

After an indefinite amount of time, my mom stopped crying and took both of my hands in her own. "If there is anything you need," she said, "I am here for you. Just tell me what you need."

"Okay," I whispered, pulling her in for another hug.


	3. Chapter 3

Santana will have nightmares in this chapter and some of the following chapters. They are frightening, but not overly graphic, by most standards. Still, proceed with caution.

Thank you so much for all of the follows, reviews, and favorites. They're really encouraging. Keep it up.

* * *

My mom and I stayed up late into the night drinking tea and talking. It was the first time we had talked about anything serious in months. I drank three cups of tea, holding the mug in both hands to warm them. I shivered all night, despite the long-sleeved shirt and the flannel pajama pants on my legs. My mom never changed out of her scrubs.

I talked at her and she listened, and it was the first time I could clearly recount the events of the day without breaking down or throwing up. It was progress. Then she talked to me, telling me that she planned on calling the hotline as soon as she could to see what law enforcement required from me for the investigation that was sure to follow the shooting. She told me that it was likely they would provide some psychological counseling session, and that if they didn't, she had connections at the hospital that could help me; we certainly couldn't afford therapy on our own.

Some resistance nestled into my mind at the idea of therapy; I had some preconceived ideas about how it worked. I thought that it would be a waste of money and a waste of my time. I could talk to my mom, and I now had Brittany to talk to as well, or at least I thought I did. We didn't need to pay someone to listen to me. I told my mom this, and she insisted that I just go to one session. After that, we could decide whether I should begin to go regularly or if it was okay for me to heal on my own.

I could tell my mom was exhausted by the way her eyelids began to droop around 3 am. Her hands would slip on her cooling mug of tea, and she often trailed off mid-sentence and forgot what she was saying. I had to remind her what she was talking about. Even after reminding her, she sometimes couldn't continue the thought. It was frustrating for both of us, because I had too much adrenaline to think about sleeping. Around 3:30, I convinced her to go to bed, after her exhaustion became too extreme for normal conversation. She decided she would call her boss and go into the hospital late in the morning. My mom told me that she might have to work some overtime the next day to make up for missed time, and that she might have to take on a few more shifts to potentially cover the cost of therapy.

"We'll see," she said. I could only nod.

"Are you okay if I go to bed?" she asked. It was unspoken that I wouldn't go to school the next day. If school was even an option. Neither of us knew.

"Yes, mom. You have to work tomorrow," I told her as I placed my empty mug into the sink.

"Will you be okay home alone?" She was overly concerned about me being alone. I had been spending afternoons after school and entire days alone in the house since I was ten. "I could take you to a friend's. Brittany's, maybe?"

The idea of going to Brittany's house sounded extremely appealing, but I didn't want to infringe on her family's hospitality. I shook my head. "No, I'll be fine here. I have her phone number if I change my mind."

My mom nodded begrudgingly and raised herself from the couch. She looked older. Her joints cracked when she stood, and I could tell her neck was bothering her. Her skin was grayer and looked more wrinkled. I couldn't tell if I was being more perceptive now or if I had been ignoring her aging, but now she looked older. It was scary. What else had I missed?

Deep inside of my heart, where no one could see, I was grateful to have met Brittany, and grateful to be on my way to repairing my relationship with my mom. I was not grateful for the shooting, or the deaths. But I was grateful to have a reason to improve my life and myself. I realized that if I had died that day in the library that I wasn't leaving many people I loved behind. There was really only one person who probably would've cared about my passing, and that was my mother. Some of my teachers might have mourned my loss, but even of that I couldn't be sure. That, I realized, would need to change. I needed to grow up, to build something for myself besides an academic profile. So that one day, if the time came, I would be proud of what I was leaving behind. I was grateful that the tragedy had opened my eyes.

I got ready for bed the same way I did every night, finding comfort in the mundane routine. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and brushed my hair. I decided I would shower in the morning. Brittany's pajamas never left my body; I left them on, wanting to smell lavender as I fell asleep. Besides, they were warm pajamas.

My room was small, dark, and messy, and I missed the blue of Brittany's room and the pink quilt on her bed. I sighed as I kicked some of my dirty clothes out of my way and crossed the floor to my bed, whose black sheets were disheveled. The wood floor creaked beneath me, and I started to regret picking black wallpaper for the entire room. At that moment, I needed light and color, like Brittany's room had. It embodied her personality. To some extent, my room did the same. I was closed off, dark, but behind the darkness was a more intricate pattern. It was on the sheets, the wallpaper, my lamp. The room was me. Now, the black felt claustrophobic and pressing. It was too dark. Overly aware of anything hiding in the closet or under the bed, I rushed over to my closet door to close it, pushing the door shut with a thump. I fell into my unmade bed and pulled my black silk sheets up to my neck, but decided I was too hot in the pajamas and kicked the sheets off. I sighed, knowing I was acting strange. I hadn't been scared in my own bedroom since I watched the second half of _the Shining_ on late night TV when I was twelve. That fear seemed ridiculous now in comparison to the tremors beginning to rack my body.

I took deep breaths, pushing the scary thoughts out of my mind. I gripped at the sheets bunched at my feet with sweaty hands, wishing Brittany were there to hold my hand and tell me it would be okay. I don't know why I believed her when she told me that, because, really, how could she know? But I believed her anyway, despite her lack of credibility. It was something to hold on to besides bedsheets. Something comforting.

I couldn't stop thinking about her. It was almost 5 am, my digital clock told me, and it was becoming ridiculous how she plagued my thoughts. I would think about the library, and there she was, her arms around me. I would think about movies, and _Forrest_ _Gump_ was in my head, and Brittany's hand was around mine. I would think about simple tasks like eating food, and there was Brittany, her mouth full of spaghetti, playing footsie with me under the table. She was everywhere.

Any ordinary day I would find it unusual that I was thinking about someone so much, especially at such a late hour. Even boys that I might have liked a tiny bit didn't spend so much time occupying my thoughts. Sometimes the boys in my AP classes would approach me, pushing their glasses up on their noses, running a hand through gelled hair, their hopes as high as their slacks. Dorks, as cheerleaders or jocks might call them. Nerds. I would patiently listen to their stuttering questions. Some of them were smoother than others, asking me right away if I wanted to catch a movie sometime. Others were ridiculous about it, asking for my number "in case I have homework questions." I always turned them down with a lie like "My mother doesn't let me date" or "I'm allergic to popcorn and horror movies" or "I'm busy every night for the next two years." Something along those lines. The number of dates I had been asked out on had dwindled from almost one a week to zero in the last few months. People had lost interest in me. I was no longer untouchable, I was just impossible. And nobody wants impossible. Not even nerds. Except Brittany, apparently. Brittany, who wanted to take care of me.

All of my thoughts came full circle back to her. Brittany and her blonde hair, her blue eyes, her voice, her laugh, her arms, her-

_Stop it._

I needed to stop thinking about her, being dependent on her. But she made me feel safe, and being safe gave me the ability to be happy. I had spent the entire day with her and I was missing her like hell. I was afraid to sleep, knowing that I would have nightmares that I couldn't control, knowing that Brittany wouldn't be there to hold me when I woke up. My hands shook. My lips trembled. Unshed tears weighed down my eyelids. The trembling became full on shaking, and I was biting my lower lip and tilting my head back to keep the tears at bay. My breathing was labored. I was in pain. I was scared.

I don't know when I fell asleep, but I knew that I had started crying before the exhaustion took over. I've never been good at waking up from dreams. I get stuck in them, like I'm glued into the story and I can't wake up until it's finished. My nightmares work the same way.

* * *

I was in the library again, but Brittany wasn't there. I was alone, and it was nighttime. The lights were off. I was wearing Brittany's pajamas. I stood absolutely still, listening to see if I was alone in the library. I believed I was. Something in my subconscious told me to get out of the library, that I wasn't safe there, but I couldn't move. I willed my legs to work and I took a step forward, and then another. I walked slowly out of the reference section, and I noticed that my feet were bare. Why had I come to school without shoes on?

When I got to the main area of the library, I stopped. The texture of the carpet had changed. It was water logged, sticky and wet beneath my feet. The carpet squished. I knew what it was before I looked at the bottoms of my feet. I sprinted back into the rows of shelves, leaving red footprints behind me. Panic settled in my stomach. I ran until I reached the end of the bookcase, where I ran smack into another person. I wasn't alone.

"Going somewhere?" The figure asked, touching my cheek. His hand was large, but smooth, as it ran along my jaw.

"Don't touch me!" I hissed, blindly swiping at his arm, but not connecting.

"Going somewhere?" he parroted. "Going somewhere?"

"No. Yes! Yes. Let me leave," I sobbed, beginning to cry. "Please."

"Going somewhere?" He cocked his head.

"Going somewhere?"

"Going somewhere?"

"Going somewhere?"

"Going somewhere?"

"Stop it!" I shrieked. I couldn't see his face, only his white teeth, grinning. I had thought it was Finn at first, but now I could see that it wasn't. The shape of the mouth wasn't right, the teeth were too crooked, the shoulders too narrow.

"Santana! A voice was saying behind me, back under the tables. "Help me, Santana!"

"_Help me, Santana!"_ The shadowy figure mimicked, raising his voice to copy the female one.

_Brittany. It's Brittany_.

I spun around, whirling into the bookshelves, knocking books onto the floor. I didn't stop to pick them up. He chuckled. I ran back into the table area, ignoring the bloody floor and trying to maneuver around the tables in the dark.

"Brittany!" I screamed. "Brittany!"

The man chuckled. "Going somewhere? Going somewhere? Going somewhere?"

"Santana!" Brittany screamed.

"_Santana!" _He mocked, "_Santana, Santana!"_

I ran into a table and fell to the floor, hitting the ground with a thump.

Combat boot footsteps. Closer.

The voice moved towards me, and now the man was looming over me, hands balled into fists. He leaned forward.

"Brittany!" I screamed. "Run!"

But there was no reply.

"Santana, guess what?" He said. "Guess what?"

"What?" I sobbed. "What do you want?"

"_Peek-a-boo._"

Then, a gunshot.

* * *

_April 21, 1999_

I shrieked even louder this time I woke up. I was drenched in sweat from head to toe. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. My door burst open and hit the wall with a bang, startling me into a sitting position. Pale morning light struggled into the room through my thick curtains, leaving long shadows against the walls. Light from the hallway outside backlit my mother as she raced into my room, her nightgown flowing behind her and her graying hair tangled where it rested on her shoulders. I could only stare at her and shrink back into the headboard as she ran towards me. Brittany's shirt stuck to my chest, hot and sticky with sweat.

She stopped at my bedside on my left, panic in her dark, tired eyes. "Santana? Are you okay?" She asked me, reaching out her hands to brush my hair away from my face.

"Don't touch me," I moaned, pulling my legs up to my chest. I wrapped my arms around them and rested my head on my knees. She backed off, holding her hands in the air in surrender, just like I had when I exited the school yesterday. She sat slowly on the edge of my bed, putting enough distance between her and my feet that she didn't frighten me. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and massaged her temples.

"Did you have a nightmare?" she asked, her voice still thick with sleep.

"Yes," I managed. Tears rolled down my cheeks, onto my shirt and down my chin and my neck.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Her eyes looked black in the pale morning light. Her silhouette was still illuminated by the hallway light. I closed my sensitive eyes against the harsh artificial light. Colorful shapes danced on my eyelids.

I shook my head and opened my eyes, curling further into myself. "No," I whispered. "I can't."

She seemed to accept this as a plausible answer and stood from my bed with a sigh. The movement made the floor creak. "Do you want tea? I guess I'll just get up now and go to work. I won't be able to fall asleep again. But I'm having second thoughts about leaving you home." She ran a hand through her hair.

"I don't want tea. I'll be fine," I snapped, looking away so I wouldn't see the hurt and shock that I knew would be visible on her face. She left the room silently, her bare feet noiseless on the floorboards. I heard her put water on the stove downstairs for her own cup of tea. I wiped the tears from my eyes.

I decided to get up too, knowing fully well that I wouldn't be able to sleep again. I didn't want to put myself in a position where I could fall asleep, either. That was dangerous. I stripped out of Brittany's clothes with trembling hands and laid them on my bed so I would remember to wash them.

My mom had stopped bothering to tell me to clean my room months ago, right around the time where I stopped bothering to spend time with her. Bottles of hair product and lotion littered the top of my dresser, and clothes in various degrees of cleanliness were strewn all over the room. I turned the lamp on my dresser on and began to clear some of the trash off of it into the silver wastebasket next to it. My room was too small to fit much other than the bed and the dresser. Still in just my underwear and the bra I had neglected to take off the night before, I walked around the room and picked up the clothing, not bothering to figure out if it was clean or not. I tossed the clothes into my laundry basket, which I kept on the floor of my closet. It had been empty for weeks. I only did laundry when I ran out of clothes to wear, which hadn't happened yet.

After the floor was cleared of all of my clothes, I tossed the ones I had borrowed from Brittany onto the top of the dirty laundry in the basket. The bright colors and plaid looked out of place in the pile of my plain, neutral clothes. I sighed. I was thinking about her again.

My mom knocked on my door. "I need to leave for work," she said, her voice muffled by the door. "Call me if you need anything."

"Okay," I called back. I heard her retreat down the hallway and down the stairs.

"I love you," I said, raising my voice so she could hear me. If she did, she didn't respond. I kicked my dresser, angry with myself for pushing her away.

_I just want Brittany._

I busied myself to stop thinking about her, about my mom, about the nightmare, about the day before. I heard my mom pull out of the driveway, so I carried the basket of laundry to our tiny laundry room on the first floor and began to sort it. I was still undressed, and the sheen of sweat from the nightmare had cooled on my body, leaving me freezing. I shivered.

After I started a load of darks, I ran upstairs to my bathroom, which I had all to myself. My mom had her own bathroom. I turned the water on in the shower, hopping back and forth to stay warm in the cold bathroom. It was only 7:30 am. I stripped out of my undergarments and stepped under the hot water stream slowly, letting it wash off the dried sweat and grime and dirt. The water was cleansing. I ran my fingers through my tangled hair, letting my muscles relax. I massaged shampoo into my scalp, trying to rid the events of the past day from my body and down the drain. I conditioned my hair next, pulling my fingers through the tangles in my hair, trying to get the thick locks in order.

I thought of Brittany. I wondered what shampoo she used, and if it also smelled like lavender. I shook the thought.

The shower began to run cold after half an hour, ruining my therapeutic session with the hot water. I sighed and turned the water off, pulling my towel tightly around me while my hair dripped onto my back. The mirror was foggy, so I ran a forearm across it so I could look at my reflection. In the mirror, I saw a shell of myself; I looked exhausted, weary, ill, even. My eyes were red from crying through the night and my skin had none of its usual bronze color. I had bags under my eyes. I looked awful. I didn't look back in the mirror while I brushed my teeth and combed my hair.

Back in my room, I let the towel drop to the floor as I found a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt to pull on. When I was dressed, I walked back downstairs to the laundry room to start another load. I then made my bed and organized all of the stuff that had collected on my dresser. When that was finished, I had no idea what to do with myself. I stood in my room, Brittany's phone number post-it in my hand. I stared at it.

I wanted to call her. So badly. But it was only 8 am, and I didn't want to seem desperate. So I decided I would wait until 11:45, when she would surely be awake. That was an appropriate time to call someone. Or at least I thought so.

"Yes," I said out loud. My voice sounded loud in the empty house. "Yes. 11:45."

But I had to occupy myself for the next four hours. During the school week, I often had enough homework that any down time I had could be spent studying or writing papers or creating graphic organizers. Because that was a thing I did. But now my bag was at school, with my stuff for my essay. I imagined my notebook in one of those plastic bags marked "EVIDENCE." It was a sorry sight.

My books on Yugoslavia were also in the school library, even though I had little desire to read them. They were with my bag, which had all of my other schoolwork in it. And I was pretty sure I wouldn't be getting that bag back in the next four hours. And I sure as hell wasn't going to sleep.

I rarely watched TV unless I was hanging out with my mom, which had become a rare occurrence. I found TV sort of mindless. As a child I had always preferred books, wanting to imagine the characters and the story myself instead of having them drawn up for me on a screen. So when kids were talking about _Ren and Stimpy _and _Doug _and _Rugrats_ at school, I had nothing to say. Which caused my group of friends to dwindle. I never really made an effort to get any of those friends back.

I paced in my room for a little while, debating whether to reread _the Stranger _or watch reruns of cartoons I had never watched as a kid. I knew they played practically all day on the children's networks. Cooking was an option, and so was performing mundane tasks like organizing my closet by color or sleeve length. There was also dusting that could be done in our living room. Or I could work out. As if.

I dismissed that option, having no interest in getting down on the floor to do any type of exercise.

At 11:38 am, after two relatively boring episodes of _Doug_, an entire reread and thorough analysis of _the Stranger_, baking a batch of brownies, six painful pushups, four loads of laundry, and a closet where my red cardigan hung on the left side of my closet, opposite from my light purple purple sweater, I stood in the middle of my room, not sure what to do. I only had to wait seven more minutes until I could call Brittany.

It then dawned on me that I would potentially be seeing Brittany that afternoon, and soon after that fact became apparent in my mind, I realized that I looked absolutely horrible. My hair was clean, but my jeans and sweatshirt combo would not do. I needed to look better for Brittany. I raced back into the bathroom and peeled off my sweatshirt, tossing it to the floor. I hastily applied the small amount of makeup I normally wore to school. My hands trembled in anticipation of the phone call, and I found myself rushing to get ready before 11:45 arrived. I pulled a brush and some product through my hair and brushed my teeth for a second time, despite not having eaten at all. My appetite was nonexistent.

I left my jeans on, but replaced the sweatshirt with a light floral t-shirt, hoping that I looked presentable. I took a deep breath, collecting myself. My hands had begun to feel clammy again, so I wiped them on my legs. Back in my room, I checked the time on the clock. 11:43.

There was a cordless phone in my room. I didn't use it often, except to call my mom when I got home from school. Today, though, the off-white phone felt heavy in my hands and the plastic slipped against my sweaty palms. I watched the clock, waiting for two more minutes before I typed in Brittany's number.

I had already had the number memorized. I had been looking at the post-it periodically throughout the day, just knowing that I was looking at her handwriting, at the ink from one of her pens. It was comforting, in a strange way. The clock changed again. 11:45. I listened for the dial tone on the phone and pressed it to my ear. I pushed my hair off of my forehead with a trembling hand.

_Should I have waited longer? Isn't there a two-day rule for this type of thing?_

I was beginning to lose my ability to think clearly. My nerves were taking over. I was about to end the call when she picked up.

"Hello?" she asked, her voice sounding exactly the way I remembered it. My nerves dissolved. I listened to her breathing for a few seconds, forgetting how to speak.

"Hello?" she asked again. I regained my composure. The line hummed, mixing with the sound of her breathing.

"Hey Brittany, it's Santana," I forced out, all in one breath.

I heard her smile into the phone. "Hey, Santana, I was beginning to wonder why you hadn't called yet."

_Well I just wasted four hours._

"Yeah, sorry, I was a little busy," I lied. Busy distracting myself from you and my nightmares and my mom.

"No problem," she said. "What's up?"

"I wanted to see if you were doing anything. If you want to like… hang out," I proposed, wincing at my delivery.

"I'd love to," she said, smiling again. "What time?"

I hadn't really thought much about the when. I had just assumed she wouldn't be doing anything for the entire day. "Uh… whenever you want," I answered. I winced again. I was so bad at this.

"How about right now?" I was glad Brittany had taken charge of the conversation.

"Yeah, sounds good," I agreed, about to ask if she could come pick me up to take me to her house, but Brittany interrupted.

"Hey, Santana, would you mind if I came to your place? My parents have been on my ass all day about what happened. We've just been sitting around and they've been pretending to be psychologists. I really need to get out of the house," she admitted, lowering her voice as she spoke. I could tell she was nervous about her parents hearing her, even though she was probably alone in her bedroom.

"Yeah, sure." I agreed without hesitation, not caring if we got together at the shady bowling alley a few miles away or on the fucking moon. I just wanted to see her. I was glad I had taken the time to clean my bedroom. "When will you be here?"

"How's fifteen minutes? My mom can drop me off."

"Alright, great. See you then," I said.

"Bye, Santana," she spoke, and then the line went dead. I replaced the phone in its cradle, smiling widely.

Fifteen minutes later I was sitting on the fourth stair of our staircase, watching the window next to the front door, waiting for Brittany. Every time a car passed I would jump up to wait at the door, but none of them were Mrs. Pierce's Buick. I was frantically brainstorming things for us to do in my tiny townhouse while I waited, overly self-conscious about boring her. I was also conscious of the glaring difference between the size of my house and the size of Brittany's; we came from completely different worlds. I didn't exactly live on the bad side of unincorporated Littleton, but it wasn't Caley Place.

I picked at my nails.

Thirteen minutes and six seconds after we hung up on the phone, the Buick was on the street in front of my house, and I suddenly realized that no high school junior ever sat on the steps and waited for their friends. That was something someone Emily's age would do. Brittany was still walking up the front walk, so I ran into the kitchen, which wasn't visible from the front porch. The doorbell rang.

_Be cool, Santana. Be cool._

I walked slowly to the door, not wanting to seem too eager. I opened it with a wide smile. She looked out of place on my front porch, which was gray and dingy compared to her radiant skin and her sunshine hair. She wore a black sweater decorated with a hot pink elephant pattern over jeans not unlike my own. She smiled back at me, her blonde bangs pushed off of her forehead with a simple, thin black headband.

"Hey Britt," I said. "I like your sweater."

She grinned. "Hey, Santana. And thanks."

I moved to let her into the house. I hadn't had a friend to the house in years. It was a social interaction I avoided at all costs. If I was invited to go somewhere, which was a rare occurrence, I rarely reciprocated the favor and invited the person to my house. Dealing with the social anxiety of making plans with Brittany was causing all of my habits in previous friendships to resurface, and I was beginning to see that I must have been a nightmare to be friends with. I worried that she wouldn't like me as much as I liked her, even though she said she liked me just the day before. I resisted the urge to pick at my nails.

Most of my senses were far from their finest when I had visited Brittany's house, and now that she was standing in my house, right in front of me, I realized how tall she was. She had a good three or four inches on me, and her beat up black Chuck Taylors gave her an added height advantage. I liked that she was taller than me, especially when she attempted to disperse the lingering awkwardness in the room by giving me a hug. She gave me a lopsided smile before she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my midsection, just as she had before I left her house the previous afternoon. I melted into her, wrapping my own arms around her neck, our unspoken greeting melting any tension arising from her presence in my house. She breathed out against my hair, tickling my ear.

Her hair was pin-straight and impossibly soft where it brushed my cheek, which I rested on her shoulder. Her thumbs rubbed the base of my ribcage, which sent tingles up and down my sides. I grinned into her hair where she couldn't see me. She still smelled of lavender, and her hair of shampoo. And mouthwash, the same brand I had used the previous day. I didn't want to let go.

But I knew we had to, and after a few glorious seconds, Brittany's arms were no longer around me. I still wanted to touch her, but I didn't know the boundaries yet. I knew yesterday was different, because of what happened, because of the fear. Today was different. The air was tinged with grief, but it wasn't the all-consuming sadness and indomitable fear that had gripped me the day before, and I didn't need Brittany's arms around me, I just wanted them there. It was what I was familiar with. I had no idea what Brittany usually did around her friends. Imagining her with the other cheerleaders proved to be a difficult task. She seemed so unlike them, out of uniform, in her sweater and her Chucks. I liked it.

I smiled at her like an idiot, trying to think of words to say. "Want to see my room?" My voice cracked and I cringed internally. I sounded a pubescent teenage boy.

"Sure," she said, smiling. "Lead the way." She stuck out her pinky.

I didn't smile as wide as I wanted to when I curled my pinky around hers and started up the stairs. Her sneakers were louder on the wooden stairs than my bare feet were. We reached the landing at the top of the stairs and turned left, following the short hallway past my bathroom and into my bedroom. I tugged her through the doorway and dropped her little finger, gesturing at my room with a sweep of my arms.

"Welcome to my room," I said, possessing all the showmanship of a paper bag. She giggled, and I beamed. "Would you like a tour?" I asked.

She stroked her imaginary beard. "I would _love _a tour." She slapped her hands on her thighs. I rolled my eyes, but kept smiling.

"This," I said, pointing to my dresser, "is my dresser. It is not an antique."

"I love the stain on the wood," she remarked, running her hand along the ridge of the dresser. "That is top-notch, right there." The dresser was from Ikea.

"I only settle for the best," I told her, winking, all of my awkwardness gone. I loved that she was playing along, making a game out of doing something as ordinary as sitting in my bedroom. She laughed. It rang through the small room, filling it. It was so easy to forget everything with her, to be normal. I could laugh and smile and not feel guilty for breathing.

I crossed the small room in two steps and pointed to my bed. "This is where I sleep," I explained, grabbing a fistful of my comforter in one hand and taking her wrist in my other. I pulled her hand towards the comforter, pulling the material of the bedding so that it brushed against her knuckles.

"That," she said, feigning amazement, "is some high quality bedding."

I nodded, moving towards my closet, which was only a few feet away. Brittany followed me. "And for the grand finale, I present to you... my closet."

Brittany smiled wide, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "May I see inside of this closet?" she asked, pointing towards the door. Her left eyebrow was raised, perfectly quirked above a curious blue eye. I chewed on my bottom lip, debating to let her see my collection of cardigans, sweaters, and slacks. Arranged by color. I was hesitant.

Brittany took my silence as a yes, for whatever reason, and was walking past me. She pulled open the closet.

"Look, a rainbow!" She exclaimed, and I slapped my palm to my forehead. That was _not _the reaction I had wanted. It could've been worse, I supposed.

She was looking at each top, absolutely making herself at home. She looked odd, in her elephant sweater, rifling through my closet. She laughed occasionally while I remained beet red. I just watched her and smiled close-mouthed through my embarrassment, glad that she was there to keep me company, even if she was tearing apart my newly organized closet. After a few seconds she pulled out a black pullover sweater that my mom had gotten me for my sixteenth birthday. It had multi-colored threads running through it, and it was the loudest thing in my closet. It wasn't unlike the sweater Brittany had on, minus the elephants. My mom had thought she could force me to change my style sophomore year. I had never worn it, and that much was completely obvious; the tags flipped out of the shirt as Brittany pulled it out of the closet.

"This," she said, completely serious, "probably looks great on you."

I frowned. "It's not really my style." Of course Brittany was attracted to the most colorful thing in my closet. "Come on," she said. "It's so cute!"

"I… uh… I don't…" I stammered.

Brittany laughed, tossing the sweater onto my bed next to me. "Wear that sometime, okay?"

I smiled fully at that, excited that she cared what I looked like, that she noticed.

_Maybe I won't have to spend this whole summer with my mom after all._

She seemed satisfied that she had seen my entire closet and closed the door. She walked over to sit next to me and I felt her weight on the bed as she sat only a few inches to my right. The toes of her shoes scuffed the wood floor where she swung her legs back and forth.

She looked at my face, and I at hers. She was studying me, carefully, like I might have studied a microscope slide in freshman biology. I couldn't tell what she was thinking. My hand itched to find hers. Apparently her hand was itching too, because after just a few seconds of staring she was intertwining our fingers and a faint smile was creeping onto her face.

"Are you okay?" she asked, rubbing the back of my hand with her thumb. I was confused at first, not sure why she was asking. And then I remembered. Brittany was proving to be a worthy distraction; I had practically forgotten for a while. I looked down and cleared my throat, which she took as a suggestion to elaborate. "I mean… I know you had that nightmare yesterday, and I was thinking about you last night."

_She was thinking about me last night?_

"And I thought you might have another nightmare, but I wasn't sure, or if you could sleep, or what," she rambled, looking at the floor. I felt her hand begin to sweat.

"Brittany," I said, not harshly, but firmly, to silence her rambling. She looked up at me.

"Sorry," she said sheepishly. "I was just worried. I am worried."

"I'm okay," I told her. "But I did have this nightmare last night." I looked into her eyes, searching for a reaction, hoping she didn't overreact, and hoping that I wouldn't push her away.

She didn't look uncomfortable, just unsure how to proceed. "Do you want to talk about it? Maybe explaining it will make it seem less scary. That's what I always have Emily do when she has a nightmare."

I smiled when I thought of Emily. Brittany must've been a really, really good big sister. I was about to refuse; the response was reflexive. The 'no, thank you' was at the tip of my tongue, ready to enter the conversation, but I stopped myself. I stopped to think. "Actually… would you mind?" I was a little embarrassed, but Brittany was probably right. If I talked about the nightmare, it would feel less real.

"Not at all," she insisted with a smile. She pushed her sneakers off of her feet with her toes, revealing two mismatched socks. One was argyle, the other polka-dotted. They were ridiculous. The black shoes hit the floor with a muted thump. She swung her legs up onto the bed, folding them in front of her like I had seen her do multiple times before. It seemed to be a position that was a favorite of hers. Her toes wiggled. She never let go of my hand.

I adjusted myself on the bed so I could face her, which required pulling my own legs up onto the bed. I faced her.

"Ready?" She asked, rubbing circles around my knuckles. I took a deep breath, steadying myself.

"Yeah, I guess," I chuckled nervously, releasing air through my nose. "So I was in the library, like in my nightmare yesterday," I told her, holding her hand tighter. "And I was in the same row of shelves we were in." She nodded attentively, never breaking eye contact, never letting go. "And I turned around and ran into this… wait, no, hold on," I backtracked, trying to remember. "Oh yeah, I remember now." She waited, never interrupting. "I walked back to the tables, where my stuff should've been. It was dark, like nighttime," I explained, more of the details coming back to me as I retold them to Brittany. "And I stepped on the carpet, and my feet squished into it, and the floor was covered in blood. I just knew it was blood. So I got scared and turned around, and ran straight into this man." Brittany's hand never stopped rubbing circles into mine, and it was soothing. "And he kept asking me if I was going somewhere, just over and over again. He just kept asking me where I was going. And I didn't know!" I gestured in the air with my free hand to show my confusion. "I had no idea what was going on!" Her blonde hair slid off of her shoulder when she nodded again, her blue eyes intense with understanding. I watched her hair, how the light from my window reflected off of it, and forgot where I was in my retelling of the nightmare.

I blinked, struggling to remember. Brittany waited patiently for me to collect my thoughts. "I didn't know who the guy was, and then someone was calling for help," I said, remembering. I debated not telling her that it was her calling for help, not wanting to frighten her, or remind her of what happen. But it was inevitable, I figured, and the dream made less sense when it wasn't her. "It was you, calling for help."

She seemed surprised to hear that. Her gaze wasn't any less understanding, but it became more curious. I paused, waiting to see if she would comment, but she didn't. I kept going. "So I ran to go find you, but he followed me, and he kept mocking your voice and asking me where I was going." My hands began to tremble, and Brittany stilled them with a gentle touch of her hands. "And then I fell down, but I don't remember how, and then he was above me, and then there was a gunshot and I woke up." I said the last part in a single breath.

Brittany's eyebrows knitted together. She was deep in thought, I could tell. Her thumb followed the circular pattern she had mapped out. "Did he shoot you?" she asked.

If I were honest with her, I'd tell her I thought it was her that was shot, because of the direction the sound came from. "I don't know," I lied, avoiding my eyes. "I woke up too soon to see."

She nodded, but I saw some doubt flicker in her eyes. "I see."

There was silence, and Brittany's perfect eyebrows told me she was still thinking.

"What happened when you woke up?" She asked.

I really didn't want to tell her that part, about pushing my mom away. I didn't want her to know how bad things were with my mom or how difficult I was to be with. But the words poured out, like she was forcing them out of me.

"My mom came in and I wouldn't let her help me. I told her to leave."

Brittany nodded, understanding, and judgment never crossed her features. I relaxed my shoulders, which had become tense while I was remembering the dream.

"I would've done the same thing," Brittany said honestly.

I wasn't sure that I believed that. I saw how Brittany and her family acted, how close they all were, and I couldn't imagine her pushing any of them away. I decided not to mention it and just enjoy the fact that there was someone listening to me.

"Do you think you'll have another nightmare tonight?" she asked me. I hadn't thought about the night; I was taking the hours as they came.

"I have no idea," I told her. "I'm scared to go to sleep." I whispered the second part. Part of me thought that if I said it quietly it would sound less pathetic and less desperate.

"I'm sure everyone is," Brittany said earnestly. "I can't imagine anyone is sleeping easily in this town, you know?" I nodded, feeling only moderately comforted.

We sat quietly for a few more seconds, and Brittany was still thinking.

"Have you called that hotline yet?"

A crease formed above my own eyebrows. "No, my mom said she would when she got a chance, but I didn't ask her about it before she left for work. Why?"

"You should call. They had all this information about how we need to go in for questioning and stuff, and how the state is providing psychologists to talk to us individually about everything after the questioning. My appointment is tomorrow morning."

I took a shaky breath. I had already told the story twice; once to Brittany's mother, once to my own, and variations of the event were recurring in my nightmares. The absolute last thing I wanted was to have to answer questions about what it was like to be in the middle of a massacre. It wasn't going to be easy.

Her warm hand found mine where it rested on the bedspread, and I refrained from holding onto it for dear life. I struggled to keep my hand relaxed in hers. I could feel my fingers twitching, threatening to tremble. Meanwhile, the anxiety over what happened the previous day blossomed in my chest. Being around Brittany was helping me think of things besides the shooting, but I knew I couldn't bring her with me to the psychological evaluation or to the interview with the police. She knew what I was thinking. She was good at that.

"You'll be okay. Do you want to come over for dinner tomorrow? After all of our stuff at the police station?"

I didn't even think of any answer besides yes. I told her that yes, I would come over. She smiled, glad. "Just make sure you call soon, okay?" She told me, still holding my hand. "They sounded pretty busy, I just want to make sure you get it over with as soon as you can, it might help with the nightmares."

"I'll tell my mom as soon as she gets home," I vowed. Brittany seemed happy with this. I was happy that she cared about me and my nightmares.

Brittany only acknowledged my reply with a quiet murmur. We laid together on our backs on my bed for a while, and the thinking lines that had appeared on her face had faded into smooth, ivory cheeks and her equally pale forehead. She didn't let go of my hand, and I didn't even think of letting go of hers. I didn't think about anything except for her; I watched her discreetly, memorizing her constellations of freckles, her chin, her jawline, her pale eyelashes, the way her throat moved when she swallowed.

My mouth was dry the next time I tried to swallow, and I ended up gulping unattractively. Brittany turned her head to smile at me and I blushed deeply. Her blonde hair splayed out across my black comforter, starkly different from the dark world of my bedroom. I looked away, focusing on the hairline cracks running through my ceiling.

"Are you hungry?" I asked, realizing that it was probably lunchtime and that I hadn't eaten since dinner at Brittany's house the day before.

She smiled wider. "I thought you'd never ask. Lead the way?"

I sat up and stood, pulling Brittany's hand to help her off of my bed. I led her out of my room and back down the stairs by her hand, even though the small house was easy to navigate. I dragged her through the living room and into the kitchen, with its yellowing appliances, hideous vinyl tile, and faded off-white paint. Brittany's kitchen was so completely different, but she either didn't notice or didn't seem to care. She sat casually at the ancient wooden four-person table in the center of the kitchen and crossed her legs at the ankles.

"What's for lunch, Chef Santana?" she asked, grinning stupidly, knowing that she could always make me smile.

I did exactly that, and my grin appeared with a dramatic eye roll. "I can make mac n' cheese," I told her. "Or peanut butter and jelly. Your call." I shifted my weight to one leg and crossed my arms.

Brittany feigned deep thought and rubbed her thumb along her chin. "Do you make your mac n' cheese with elbow noodles?"

"Um… yes? I think so?" I didn't know anyone that was particular about noodle shape. But then again, my social circle was pretty nonexistent.

"Good, elbow noodles are my favorite," she said seriously, placing both of her hands palm-down on the tabletop with an air of finality quite unsuitable for the topic of the conversation.

"Can I ask why elbow noodles are your favorite?" I knew we had elbow noodles, and I would certainly make Brittany mac n' cheese with elbow noodles if she preferred them.

"I like foods that have body parts for names. Like angel hair pasta, or ladyfingers. And elbow noodles. Did you know they named elbows after those noodles?"

I snorted with laughter at that, knowing she was kidding, but also realizing that most of what Brittany said had some truth to it. Especially her jokes. I rolled my eyes again. "I'll get your elbow noodles."

She smiled and propped her elbows up on the table. She rested her chin in her palms. I turned around and opened one of the dark wooden cabinets where we kept the noodles. I couldn't see them in the cabinet, but I knew that they were on a higher shelf with the spaghetti and the rice.

I grunted as I pulled myself up onto the laminate countertop. The knees of my jeans slid forward, threatening to topple me off of the surface.

"Do you need any help?" Brittany asked from behind me. I could hear her shuffling in her chair.

"No, I'm good," I replied, stretching my arm as high as I could to reach the blue box, which was visible on the top shelf. My shoulder muscles groaned in protest.

The legs of Brittany's chair made little noise when she scooted back to stand, so I didn't hear as much as I felt her presence when she walked towards the countertop I was perched on. It was just like the previous day in the library, when I was kneeling by the bookshelf and she approached me from behind.

My fingertips brushed the edge of the box and it moved slightly towards me, protruding enough from the shelf that I could grab it with a few of my fingers. My arm ached. As my hand closed around the side of the box, the denim of my knees slipped again against the laminate and my balance was gone. I was falling backwards, the noodles forgotten as they crashed onto the countertop and onto the floor. Elbows skittered across the vinyl as I flailed my arms in front of me, trying to right myself and ultimately failing. In the next tenth of the second I had resigned myself to a concussion at the least.

But instead of hitting air on my way down, a pair of solid arms were around me, holding me up. They belonged to Brittany, who was standing behind me. The sleeves of her elephant sweater were warm around my waist. I sighed in relief as I relaxed into her. My pounding heart slowed and she didn't let go.

"You should've asked for help," she whispered into my ear, reprimanding lightly. My hair moved slightly where her breath met my ear. But that only caused my heart rate to speed up again, and I felt that tingling feeling again, like when she had tickled me the night before. I smelled lavender.

"I'm going to let go," she said. "Okay?" My head reeled and I struggled to catch my breath.

I murmured in agreement and used her arm strength as leverage to right myself on the kitchen counter so I was kneeling again, facing the open cabinet. Brittany stepped back, and I heard a crunch.

"We should probably pick up these noodles," she said, kneeling cautiously on the floor as I lowered myself onto the tile, careful not to step on any. I closed the cabinet door. Brittany's long, shiny hair hung in her face as she used one hand to scoop elbows into a pile in front of her. I placed the box upright on the counter above me, finding that there were still enough noodles left in the box to make the mac n' cheese, if we had to throw out everything on the floor. I knelt down a few feet away from her and started to pick up the pasta, collecting it in a pile in front of the stove.

"There's still enough to make mac n' cheese," I told her as I slid my hand beneath the edge of the lower cabinets, searching for stray noodles.

She smiled, mimicking my motion under the cabinets next to the oven. "Good. Can you do that without falling down?"

I turned away to hide my blush behind a curtain of hair. "I can try." A giggle escaped my lips without my consent.

I kept my head down to look for any other stray elbows. Brittany and I had picked up most of them and added them to the pile, and we continued to rove around quietly on our hands and knees to find any remaining ones. I spotted one lone noodle under the fridge and I crawled towards it, dragging my feet behind me. I reached for it, my fingers outstretched, and was surprised to find a pale hand and elephant sleeves outstretched next to mine, fingers close enough to touch. I turned my neck so I could face her, expecting to see a wide smile, but her face was different from the faces I had become familiar with.

This face was distracted, and the pink mouth was parted slightly. Our heads were much closer than I had anticipated, and I expected a reflex to jerk my head back, but it never came. My heart pounded again when the scent of lavender reached my nose. I could smell the mouthwash, too, and I could see all of her freckles. She watched me. Her face was unreadable.

"Thanks for catching me," I breathed, unsure what else to say, but desperate to fill this silence, and unable to meet her eyes, which were boring into mine. Instead, I scanned her cheeks and her chin, the curve of her jaw and the lines of her nose. And her lips. After just half a second I managed to pull my own eyes up to meet hers. It was impossible not to look at them, even though saying they were the most captivating things on her face would be unfair to the rest of her flawless features. The blue was like a magnet. My own lips parted slightly, matching hers.

Her eyes flicked to my lips so quickly that I thought I might have imagined it. "Anytime," she whispered, and our fingers brushed as we both found the last piece of pasta at the same time. She smiled, breaking my trance, and I pulled my head back, blinking. I closed my hand around the final piece and tossed it onto our growing pile of spilled elbow noodles. I stood up and brushed some dust off of my knees and hands. Brittany hadn't moved from her position on the floor except to turn her head to watch me. She flicked some hair out of her face to rest on her shoulder and smiled fondly.

"What are you looking at?" I asked nervously, toeing the ground with my bare feet. I wasn't used to people looking at me.

"Nothing," she insisted, standing up to her full height and twisting her shoulders with her hands on her hips. "That hurt my back. And now I'm even hungrier than before."

My head, impossibly, was still reeling from the closeness I had experienced with her on the floor. I was an idiot about some social things, but wasn't that a little close for friends? Or for people that had known each other for a day? And why had she acted so strangely when I looked at her? She hadn't treated it like a big deal, so why should I? Rationalizing that I shouldn't dwell on it, I pulled out a pot to cook the noodles in. I filled it with water. The pot clanked as I placed it on the top of the stove and turned on the burner.

"Do you think it's safe to cook these ones that fell on the floor?" Brittany was asking as she stared at the yellow elbow noodles in their pile by the stove.

"I think so," I said. "Any germs will burn off, right?"

"You'd know better than I would," she admitted. "But alright," she said, stooping to scoop the pile of noodles into her hands. She placed the pile on the counter. She repeated the motion until all of the noodles were next to the stovetop.

"Thanks," I said absentmindedly while I retrieved a brick of cheddar cheese and a carton of milk from the fridge.

"Anytime."

And with that simple word, tingles ran down my entire body again, and I fought the urge to shudder. I busied myself with finding the ingredients, hoping Brittany didn't see my reaction. I didn't know how to explain my reaction to that word, so how could she?

Having friends like this was confusing.

We made the mac n' cheese without much hassle, except for some confusion when Brittany couldn't figure out the recipe. Though Brittany swore up and down she could taste essence of kitchen floor when lunch was finally finished, I knew she was kidding. Her bright eyes gave her away. I met those eyes every few seconds over the steaming, gooey noodles, and I didn't think once about the shooting or the impending struggle of recovery that I was sure I'd have to endure in the coming months. I didn't think about going back to school or about my finals or about touring colleges. I didn't think about my nightmares.

Neither of us had any grand plans for the rest of the day, so we settled for finding something to watch on the TV. After we washed the dishes, we walked into the living room, where I quickly wished that we had replaced the couch like my mom had promised to months before. Brittany didn't seem to mind the shabby piece of furniture, and flopped into the twenty year-old cushions like she had been sitting on them her entire life. I sat next to her, closer than I had sat the day before in her basement, but not close enough for our legs to touch. She crossed her legs on the coffee table while I flipped through channels, ignoring all of the news stations, which flickered past with pictures of the high school.

_Toy Story_ was playing on one of the children's channels, but I didn't stop, having little interest in watching it.

"Wait, stop!" Brittany exclaimed, leaning forward so she could see the TV better. I had passed the channel that _Toy Story _was playing on. "I love _Toy Story_."

I looked at her curiously, but not judgmentally. Her cheeks pinked.

"I mean… it's Em's favorite, but I always watch it with her, because I like it too," she mumbled.

I laughed, and the blush spread to the tips of her ears. "Do you want to watch it?"

Before she could reply I had clicked back a few channels to where _Toy Story _was playing. It was early in the movie, and Buzz Lightyear was only just being introduced to the other characters. The delighted grin on Brittany's face completely made up for the fact that I was spending my afternoon watching a movie for kids.

By the time the toys found themselves at Sid's house, I realized with a start that Brittany's thigh was touching mine. She seemed too engrossed in the film to notice, but I observed that I had subconsciously moved towards her while the movie played. I had been at least half a cushion away from her when we first started watching, but now there was hardly any space between us, and Brittany's leg felt warm against mine. The tingling started again, and suddenly I wasn't thinking about the perilous situation on the screen, but of Brittany and I staring at each other on the kitchen floor. I immediately thought of her lips, of the way they were perfectly pink, and curved so gently around her so-white smile. My heart rate picked up. I didn't stop to think why I found myself so fixated on her lips; I only prayed that Brittany couldn't hear the way my heart thudded against my ribcage.

I wanted to move even closer, to feel more of her leg against mine. But now that I was aware of my subconscious movement towards her, I knew she might also be. But then again, moving away looked suspicious, like I didn't want to be near her. Brittany laughed at something on the screen and I almost jumped at the notion that she had figured me out. My palms became clammy. The crucifix around my neck stirred.

I told myself not to read so much into these little things. But even if I was reading, I wasn't understanding. I didn't want to understand why I was thinking about Brittany's lips. Jealousy, that was it. She had really nice lips.

I glanced at her leg, and back to my own, considering how much movement it would take for her leg to run the entire length of mine, from hip to kneecap. I wanted to move closer. Badly. I began to inch my foot towards her first, hoping to move against her while she was distracted by the movie. The plan worked so far, and she was completely captivated by the images onscreen. Just as my knee fell into place just above hers, since her legs were longer, the side door opened. I jumped onto my feet and whirled around to see my mom enter the kitchen, her keys dangling from one hand, her purse in the other.

Brittany tensed as she turned around completely to see who had entered the house, and relaxed a little when she saw that it was just my mom. I took a step to my right so I was further from Brittany. I don't know why I moved away, but I felt guilty standing so close to her. Caught for something I didn't know I was doing. I smiled nervously at my mom, who had noticed us in the room and looked surprised to see Brittany on our dingy couch.

"Hey mom, how was work?" I chirped, and I knew I sounded uncharacteristically cheerful.

She eyed me suspiciously, clearly not over our encounter that morning. I knew her to be a major grudge-holder. "It was fine," she said carefully, glancing between Brittany and me.

"Hi Ms. Lopez," Brittany interjected. That brought a tired smile to my mom's face, but the lines on her forehead still looked deeper than ever.

"Hi, Brittany. How are you? How's your family?" She placed her keys in the dish by the door and took off her jacket to hang it on a hook on the wall.

"I'm good, they're good," Brittany replied casually. She had moved her feet from the coffee table to the floor, probably so that my mom didn't think she was being disrespectful. It was astounding that she cared, really.

"Good, I'm glad to hear that." My mom moved around the kitchen to stand at the counter and watch us over the half-wall. I was still standing by the couch. Brittany was sitting. _You've Got a Friend in Me _played. I was suddenly embarrassed to have been watching _Toy Story._

"Are you two watching _Toy Story_?" she asked, and I waited for the judgmental smirk, or the eyebrow, or something. But nothing came; she just pursed her lips and looked at us curiously.

"Yes we are," Brittany stated. I resisted the urge to slap a palm to my forehead.

"That's… nice," my mom said, and turned to busy herself in the kitchen. I breathed a sigh of relief for escaping her judgment and plopped back down on the couch, this time a few feet away from Brittany.

She looked up at me and frowned at the difference in distance, her lower lip jutting out just slightly below her top lip. Lighter pink revealed itself, and I begged my eyes not to look. She wanted me closer. I noted that. I was saved by my mother, of all people.

"Santana, I hope you fed your guest?" I heard her opening the fridge.

I glanced at Brittany, who was smiling again. As cute as her pout was, I preferred her smile. I smiled back. "Yeah, mom, I did," I said back, raising my voice so she heard me in the adjacent room. "We made mac n' cheese."

She moved to stand in the arch separating the two rooms and looked at me, one hand holding a dishtowel on her scrub-clad hips, the other leaning up against the wall. "That sounds good. How'd it turn out?"

I prayed to God that Brittany didn't make a comment about me falling off of the counter. She opened her mouth and I cringed, but all she said was an enthusiastic "Delicious!"

My mom smiled and returned to the kitchen. The credits of _Toy Story _rolled. It was almost five. I looked at Brittany, who blinked back at me. We sat awkwardly, still a few feet apart on the couch.

"Brittany, will you be staying for dinner?" my mom called from the kitchen over the sound of running water. "I'm making tacos."

I groaned silently. We'd eaten tacos just three days earlier. Brittany smiled at my reaction. "I'm not sure, I'll have to call my mom. I'd love to stay though, tacos are my favorite."

The innuendo was lost on my mom, but not me; probably because only I saw the wink that she sent in my direction at the taco comment. My face flushed. Brittany made _sex jokes_? Since when?

_Since you've known her for twenty-four hours, maybe?_

Oh yeah.

I vowed to never, ever, ever let Brittany see me looking enviously at her lips. If she made lesbian sex jokes, she'd probably get the wrong idea. She smiled wide, proud of herself. I shook my head. It was probably the influence of all of the jocks she undoubtedly hung around. Being a cheerleader, that was sort of inevitable.

"Let's go to my room," I said, not bothering to take her hand. She could find her own way up the stairs.

I didn't bother to tell my mom we were leaving the vicinity of the kitchen. I wanted to get us out of there so we could avoid dinner preparation and awkward small talk with my mom. And Brittany needed to call her own mom. I entered my room right in front of Brittany, who came in and sat in the exact same spot she had earlier that day. I reached out to close the door behind her and I went to sit on my bed, but I didn't sit as close to her as I had earlier. Brittany noticed, but didn't make a joke out of it, like she had on the couch. Disappointment clouded her features, and her eyes got a little stormy. The gray streaks in her irises became more pronounced. Her soul and the brightness that had been there all day retreated a little bit, and became muddled. But she didn't say anything.

I scooted closer, eyeing the door so I didn't get caught by my mom. The clouds dissipated a little, which was good enough for me. Brittany reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out her cell phone. I watched her long fingers press the right buttons.

"Hey mom, it's me," she said calmly into the phone.

"Yeah, we had mac n' cheese and watched _Toy Story_," she said with a smile, cradling the phone against her ear. I could make out the buzzing of her mom talking, but not the words she was saying.

"So I was wondering if I could stay at Santana's for dinner, would that be okay?" Brittany chewed her lower lip while she waited for the response.

"Okay, yeah, hold on," she said. She turned to face me and covered the mouthpiece with one hand.

"Would your mom mind giving me a ride home?" She asked. I shook my head.

"Yeah, that's fine. I'll drive you home myself, actually. I have my license," I told her. She smiled and uncovered the mouthpiece to tell her mom.

"Yeah, she can give me a ride." A pause. "Yep, sounds good."

"Alright, love you too. Bye." She hung up and shoved the phone back into her pocket. They must've been pretty deep pockets to fit the phone; it was hardly pocket-sized.

"Do I need to drive you back after dinner, or can you stay longer?" I asked her, meeting her eyes. They were brighter.

"No, I need to be home by seven. Emily's bedtime is at eight, and I haven't seen her all day, so I want to read a book to her before she goes to bed," Brittany said, rushing her words together. She seemed embarrassed.

"Britt, it's okay, don't be embarrassed," I said, inching closer on the bed. She smiled sheepishly. "You're sister is adorable, and I think it's great that you want to go home and read to her. You should be with family right now, anyway," I admitted, suddenly feeling selfish for keeping her at my house for the majority of the day.

"What about you?" she asked earnestly, finding my hand on the bedspread. My fingers reacted immediately, twisting into hers. Her hand was warm, just like it always was.

"What do you mean?" I asked, my tone laced with doubt.

"I can't just leave you here alone, because you might have another nightmare," Brittany said. I opened my mouth to speak, but she shushed me with a single finger that she held between us. "Being by yourself is the worst when you're sad. And don't tell me you have your mom, because that's not true."

I hung my head in resignation. "Yeah, I guess you're right." She nodded. "But I do feel selfish for keeping you here.

Brittany smiled a small smile and squeezed my hand. "Don't be. I want to be here for you."

I smiled at that, and a comfortable silence settled over the room. I fell backwards onto the bedspread, and Brittany followed, studying the ceiling with bright blue eyes.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow?" She asked, reminding me of the visit we both had to pay to the police station the following day.

"A little. I don't want to talk about it with them, you know? I don't even know how much of it I can actually remember, just because I'm so scared to think about it."

She murmured in agreement and squeezed my hand. "I'm struggling with it, too. I'm okay, but talking about it isn't fun, ever. It never will be. Have you watched the news at all?"

"I only know what I know from my mom and what we saw yesterday," I told her. "And she told me that those two guys shot themselves. I have no idea what else happened. I don't really want to know what else happened."

Brittany nodded at this, her blonde hair moving against the dark comforter. "Me neither," she said. "I haven't been following it at all."

Quiet settled in the room, and we just laid there, listening to the sounds of our heartbeats.

"Later, I might find out everything that happened. But only when it's less scary," she said. "Right now it's too raw. It's like ripping off the band-aid before the cut is healed."

"Yeah," I whispered. "That's exactly it."

The room grew quiet again. Pots and pans clinked downstairs.

"Santana! Brittany!" My mom's voice floated up from the stairs. "Dinner!"

I sighed and reluctantly lifted myself out of bed. I let go of Brittany's hand, and it bounced on the comforter with a muffled thump. She groaned as I got to my feet.

"Come on, lazy," I told her. "Let's go eat those tacos you love so much."

She beamed and sat up, picking up the Chucks she had taken off earlier and pulling them onto her feet. I rolled my eyes. I descended the stairs with Brittany at my heels, and we both walked into the kitchen as my mom was setting a taco at three places on the table.

"Are you staying for tacos?" my mom asked Brittany, pointing to the plates on the table.

"Yes, I am," Brittany told her politely, smiling. "Thank you for dinner, Ms. Lopez," she told my mom.

My mom smiled widely. I couldn't remember the last time I had thanked her for dinner, and I assumed that she couldn't remember either. "You're always welcome, honey," she said, and took her usual seat with her back facing the kitchen. I sat across from her, with Brittany on my right.

Since eating a taco was a two-hand procedure, I couldn't find Brittany's pinky with my right hand, so I settled for poking the back of her calf with my toe. She smiled at me discreetly with taco juice running down her chin. It dripped onto the plate. I handed her a napkin from the stack in the center of the table.

"Thanks," she said, wiping her mouth with the napkin and placing it next to her plate. Still holding her taco, she faced my mom, who had stopped eating and looked like she was about to say something.

"I called that hotline today, Santanita," she said. I blushed at the childish nickname, but Brittany smiled. My mother didn't notice. "They want you to come in tomorrow, so I took off of work. We have to be there at 10:30 to start the witness investigations; they need a report from you because you were in the library. I spoke to one of the secretaries; she told me that the Jefferson County PD would provide some counseling after the questioning to follow standard procedure. But then again, there's not much standard about this, is there?"

I shook my head. Brittany tapped my foot lightly with her sneaker; it was the most reassurance she could give me at the dinner table. My mom took another bite of her taco, chewed, and swallowed.

"We'll probably be there for a while, they've had to schedule a lot of sessions. I really don't expect anything to be very orderly over there."

Brittany nodded at this, swallowing the bite of taco that she had been chewing. "My session is scheduled for eight, so I have to get up pretty early," she said.

I wished that my mom had called the police earlier to schedule a time for me to come in. I didn't want to have to sleep for any longer than I had to, and I knew I would just end up sitting around the house with nothing to do for a few hours once I woke up. I sighed. My mom didn't notice, but Brittany did, and she tapped my foot twice with the toe of one of her Chucks. I appreciated that she had noticed. Her observant nature was unusual, but it was something I believed I would grow to love.

My mom had finished eating and got up to begin cleaning up the kitchen. Brittany and I finished our own tacos. I crumpled up my napkin and placed it on the plate and carried it to the sink, along with my empty glass. Brittany followed suit.

"Mom, can I take your car to drive Brittany home?" I asked.

She was still wearing her scrubs, and they looked bright against the dated kitchen. She placed her wrists on her hips, but not her hands, as they were dripping with soapy water. Droplets of water hit the vinyl floor near her socked feet.

"I'd rather drive her home myself, Santana," she told me, brushing her graying out of her face with a dry forearm. "I don't know that it's safe for you two to be out alone at night yet."

I wrinkled my nose in defiance. "Mom, it's fine. Really. I don't want to bother you to take her home."

I could see her weighing her options. She had never had a problem with me driving at night before, and certainly not alone. I'd already had my license for over six months, and she let me borrow the car to run errands or go to the local library. I knew the internal debate she was having; she didn't want to seem too controlling, especially in front of Brittany, but she was genuinely concerned for our safety.

She turned her back to us and began to run a soapy sponge across a plate. "Be safe," she said, conceding.

"Thanks, mom," I said. "I'll be back in ten minutes."

She didn't reply, just continued washing the dishes. I walked Brittany to the door, where I remembered that I needed to return the clothes she had lent me.

"Hold on," I said. "I'll be right back, I'm just going to grab those pajamas I borrowed."

She nodded and stood in the doorway. I ran to the laundry room and grabbed her clothes off of the stack of folded laundry in the basket on the floor. I returned to her and held the pajamas out. She took them and held them to her chest with one arm while she muttered a quick thanks. I grabbed the car keys from the key dish, slipped on some shoes, and we exited through the side door into the spring air, which was damp and cool. I unlocked the car, getting in on the driver's side. Brittany sat opposite from me in the passenger's side, quiet. She shivered. I looked in my mirrors and swiveled to glance behind me as I backed out of the driveway in front of our townhouse complex.

"Is driving easy?" Brittany asked abruptly, looking small as the sunset shadows passed across her face. The dashboard clock blinked 7:14 in glowing red. The street lamps were beginning to come on along South Pierce Road.

"Have you driven before?" I asked her, keeping my eyes on the road so I didn't get distracted by Brittany. I didn't ask her for directions; I remembered the route to her house fairly well.

"No, I haven't," she admitted. "My mom doesn't think it's a very good idea."

"Why not?" I continued driving on the main road.

"I get distracted easily, so she doesn't really trust me to not get hurt driving," she said. She sounded very sad. "Everyone I know knows how to drive. It just sucks, because I have to take the bus."

I didn't even think very much about what I said next. "I can give you driving lessons."

"You can?" She asked incredulously.

I laughed at her amazement. "Of course I can. What, you don't think I'm a very good driver?"

I turned onto Brittany's street, looking out of the passenger side window for her house. The sky was orange and purple. "No, that's not what I meant!" She defended, but I just laughed again, pulling to a stop in front of her neatly manicured lawn. "I have my permit, I've just never logged any hours. Teaching me to drive would kind of be a huge undertaking. No one I know would've offered, they don't have time. So thank you."

"I don't care," I said. "It'll give me an excuse to spend more time with you."

She grinned and unbuckled her seatbelt, still clutching the loaner pajamas to her chest. "Thanks for having me today. I had a really good time."

"Anytime," I told her, and she smiled at my word choice.

Seconds later she was leaning across the console, and my pulse was galloping into a sprint. My eyes widened of their own accord, and I watched her lips as she leaned closer and closer, and all thought in my brain ceased to exist. I stared at her numbly, waiting. She moved in slow motion.

And then she was wrapping me in an awkward, one-armed hug, but it wasn't awkward, because it was Brittany. I smelled lavender and felt her breathing into my hair that rested on my shoulder. Tingles ran up and down my body again, but they were the strongest at the base of my spine. It was a delicious feeling, but frightening too, because it was happening every single time Brittany touched me.

I wondered briefly if it was a mutual feeling, like electricity was flowing from her to me and back, with our skin as the conductors. I leaned into her, drinking in her scent greedily with my slightly opened mouth. Her arm was warm around me, and her neck was warm against my arms, which slid around her neck in the embrace. The hug was too long, and I knew that, but my heart said that it wasn't long enough.

"Good night, Santana," she said, letting me go and stepping out of the car and into the moist air. "I'll see you tomorrow, maybe?"

"Yeah, definitely," I whispered, still off-kilter from the hug. She smiled at me as she closed the car door and walked across her lawn and around the garage to what I assumed was a side door. She didn't look back. I missed her already.

I sat in front of Brittany's house for a little while, watching the lights in the windows. I figured out which windows were Brittany's. They were dark. I assumed Brittany had gone to read to Emily, and probably wouldn't be in her room for a while.

Deciding I was being creepy and I needed to leave, I put the car in drive and slowly drove out of Caley Place and onto S Pierce Road. There weren't many cars out. The sun set at the edge of the road, against the trees. I sighed heavily, depressed about returning home to my mom and an empty bedroom and nightmares.

She was watching the news when I returned home. I saw a shot of the school; similar to the aerial shot I had seen on the news the day before. I kicked off my shoes and dropped the keys in their bowl.

"Hey mama," I said, walking towards the bottom of the stairwell.

"Where are you going, mija?" she asked, twisting around so she could see me. She had changed into her pajamas.

"I'm going to go to bed. I don't want to watch the news," I told her, rubbing at my temple with my fingers. I yawned.

"Why?" she asked. "You need to know these things. They're important. This is your school."

"Mom," I told her, "I can't. I just can't do it. I'm not ready. Maybe tomorrow."

"Fine," she said flatly, turning back to the TV. "I'll change the channel." She reached for the remote.

"No, no, mama, you watch. I'm going to go to bed."

"Santana, it's not even eight o'clock. Why are you so tired?"

"I couldn't sleep last night," I told her. I punctuated the statement with another yawn. I really was exhausted. Without Brittany as a distraction, I had been able to ignore how tired and heavy my entire body felt.

"Oh, that's right," she said, her tone softening as she remembered the incident that morning. "You come get me if you need me, okay?"

"Okay," I said, starting to make my way up the stairs. "I love you," I said, not quite expecting a response from her.

"I love you too, Santana," she replied, her voice floating up the stairs over the sounds of the news anchor on the TV. Her voice didn't convey any warmth, but the thought was there in her reply. I knew her well enough not to expect any more.

I brushed my teeth and washed my face in the bathroom. In the mirror, there were bags under my eyes. I fingered the light shadows there, moving the skin back and forth. I pulled a brush through my hair. In my bedroom, I changed into an oversized t-shirt, took off my jeans, and slid into bed. I wished that I had Brittany's clothes to wear, so I could fall asleep smelling lavender. If I tried hard enough, I could still smell it on the sheets, but I could've been imagining it.

I thought of her as I sank into my pillows and the final remnants of the sunset slunk out of the room, leaving it dark. I missed having her with me. Now, alone with my thoughts, I had begun to think of what had happened, and how I would need to recount it all to the police the next day. I didn't know I was crying until a quiet sob bubbled up from my chest and the tears reached the collar of my shirt. My pillow muffled the sound well enough. My tears ran down my cheeks and my neck. I wanted her there to wipe the tears away.

Despite being cripplingly afraid of falling asleep, the exhaustion overtook me in minutes, and I sank into that hazy in-between while the blackness sank over my eyes. Finally, I slept.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **To address one review in particular (allilurks), but this is relevant to anyone who cares:

I was intentionally vague in the summary of this story so that I did not give away too much of the plot, but I see now that that may have been a point of confusion for some readers, especially because the summary is in third person and the story is in first. When I say that Santana becomes confused about her feelings for Brittany, I mean that Santana herself initially believes that her feelings for Brittany are just sparked by some confusion, and that they're only feelings of safety that she has perceived as something else. Santana will figure it out, but I don't want to give too much away. Also, Brittany has some secrets of her own that will be revealed in a later chapter, and that will change their relationship significantly. Like I said earlier, this is a love story, and it won't be unrequited. Thank you for pointing this out, allilurks, I really appreciate it. Does anybody think I should change the summary?

The reviews blow me away, really. Keep it up.

* * *

I had never been a lucid dreamer, so when I was dreaming, I didn't know it. This time, I was the one holding the gun. The thing was heavy, much heavier than I expected a gun to be. Who would ever want to carry this thing around for any period of time? It wasn't dark anymore, but the only light in the school hallway came from the daylight filtering in through the open classroom doors and the windows at either end of the hallway.

I didn't know what to do with the gun. Deciding I would keep it with me and return it to whomever it belonged to, I cradled it carefully in both hands. Leaving it by itself against a row of lockers sounded like a terrible idea. I had no idea if it was loaded, or who else was around. I didn't know much about guns at all, but it looked like an old shotgun. I knew enough to keep my hands far away from the trigger and the barrel. The school seemed to be empty, but the hallway was a mess. Lockers hung open, papers were strewn everywhere, and some backpacks were just sitting on the floor, some open and overturned. My bare feet itched on the dusty linoleum floor.

_Where the hell is everyone?_

There must've been a fire drill. Or a real fire, but I didn't smell any smoke. Why else would the hallways be this messy? I looked at the gun again, but this time, there were bloody smears all over it, and my own hands were covered in blood.

_What the fuck?_

The blood didn't appear to be mine; I didn't feel any pain from any wounds that I could be bleeding from. I turned the gun over in my hands, searching the metal and the wood grain for an answer. I still had no idea what was going on. I spun in a slow circle, looking for clues to give me answers, and still finding nothing but school supplies and open lockers. Upon picking a few pieces up, I found that every single paper in the hallway was blank. That was odd. I walked towards one end of the hallway.

"Hello?" I called. I heard no response. The gun felt heavier in my hands, and I really, really wanted to put it down. My hands slipped against the still-wet blood and my heart skipped a beat.

"Where is everyone?" I yelled, and my voice reverberated off of the walls. My slow walk had brought me to the end of the hallway, where the window providing most of the light in the hallway was located. There was still no response. Confused, I looked out the window, expecting to see the entire student body outside, and worse, laughing at me. But all I saw when I looked out was white. Blinding white, like a reflection off of snow. Nothing else was visible.

I ran to the other end of the hallway to look out of the other window. The metal of the gun hit my hips and dug into my skin as I ran. My feet thudded hollowly against the floor as I came to a stop in front of the widow at the opposite end of the hall. I breathed heavily, resting the gun on my knees to catch my breath. I was wearing Brittany's plaid pajama bottoms. Traces of blood appeared on my legs when I pulled the gun away; I instantly worried that I would stain Brittany's pants.

Looking out of the window, I saw nothing but white, the same as before. It didn't appear out of the ordinary from a distance, but up close there was an untouchable bright whiteness radiating from just outside of the windows. It washed out the color from my hands and my arms, like a fluorescent light, leaving my skin unusually pale and oddly translucent.

Behind me, where there had previously been silence, was now a sound. A shoe, it seemed. It squeaked on the linoleum. I whirled around, hoping to catch the wearer of the shoe and demand an explanation. It was possible, however, that the shoe wearer was after me. Maybe that was the reason for the rifle. I didn't trust myself enough to use it properly, so I didn't move it from its position in my hands as I turned to see nothing but a single sheet of notebook paper falling through the air, out of a locker, disturbed by something I hadn't witnessed. The panic set in. It was that heavy unfamiliar panic that came with not having all of the answers. Like sitting down to a test and having no idea how to answer the essay question. It was that, but magnified by a thousand. And I wasn't holding a pencil, I was holding a gun, and my hands were bloody.

I blinked to clear my head, and then the hallway was filled with fluttering papers. Among the papers were eight faceless men, clad in black from head to toe with SWAT uniforms. I counted the barrels of their guns quickly, which was easy, because every single gun was pointed at my body. Red lights appeared on my chest, wavering as the gunmen found their targets.

And then it clicked. Bile rose into my throat immediately.

"It wasn't me," I said, choking back a sob. "I swear to god, it wasn't me. I don't know what's going on. Please don't shoot." I tried to move backwards, but my feet felt stuck to the floor.

The guns didn't move. One faceless man turned to an identical blank face, and nodded. I dropped the gun in my hands to the floor, where it landed with a heavy thud. I nudged it with my foot, hoping to distance it from myself. The red lights followed my every move. The gun I had been holding slid a few feet from me, and I stood up straight again, waiting, guilty.

"I didn't do it," I cried. I held my bloody hands over my head in surrender.

And then, in slow motion, every single gun fired at me.

* * *

_April 22, 1999_

I didn't wake up screaming this time, but I was breathing hard and a cold sweat had broken out all over my body. My hair stuck to my forehead. I lay panting for a few minutes, trying desperately to breathe normally and to rid my hands of their trembling. My room was still dark when I tossed my covers off of me, shivering when the cold morning air hit my legs. My alarm clock told me that it was just past 7 am. I debated going back to sleep, but I knew that I wouldn't be able to. Eleven hours was more than enough. I'd had enough of the nightmares, too.

Analyzing the night terrors was something that I couldn't do, so I vowed not to think about them. The nightmares represented knowledge about myself that I didn't want; I didn't want to know what they meant. I knew why they were happening, but I just wanted them to stop. Decoding them wouldn't make me feel any better. I wanted to tell Brittany about the most recent one, knowing that she could help me forget.

Having nothing else to do at 7 am and feeling like I needed it, I went to my bathroom to take a shower. The lights in my mom's room were still dark. In the bathroom, I peeled off my t-shirt and underwear and turned on the shower, turning the hot water knob as far as it would go. While it warmed up, I stood on the cold tile with my arms crossed over my chest and shivered. Goosebumps appeared across my stomach and down my legs, creeping around my shoulders and down to my wrists. I rubbed my arms to warm them up.

When I stepped into the shower, the hot water warmed my back immediately, and I just stood there for a few seconds, waiting and breathing and letting my hair get wet. This time there were not grime and tragedy to wash away, only dried sweat and grief. I leaned my forehead against the cool tile, trying not to remember my nightmares. There were faceless men and blank paper and guns crawling into my every thought, every action, taunting me with terror. I needed distraction. I needed Brittany.

I shut my eyes tight while I massaged shampoo through my hair, holding back tears that I refused to let fall. With my eyes closed, I couldn't see the nightmares. I had to stop being so weak, I told myself. I had to pull it together for the police and for this therapist and my mom and for Brittany; but among all of those, only one seemed important. I wondered when I would get to see her.

After finishing my shower, I grabbed a towel from the rack on the wall. In the mirror, I looked infinitely better than I had the previous day. Some color had returned to my face, and my eyes looked less hollow and sunken in. Satisfied, I brushed my teeth and went back to my room, holding the towel up with a hand on my chest. My mother's room was still dark.

Back in my room, I wasn't sure what to wear. How does anybody know what to wear to a witness testimony? I felt the need to dress better than I normally did, to seem professional. I wanted to feel like an adult today, not some high school kid. This was important to everyone, especially to the families of those kids. I still didn't know the details of the event, either; it was possible that no one at all had died. The realist in me knew that it wasn't possible, and the pessimist in me was too scary to listen to. I was regretting watching the news, to some extent; I was scared to know who had died, or who was injured, or who the shooters were. Did I know them? Would I recognize their names? I shook my head, and droplets of water fell from my hair to the floor. I had to stop thinking about it.

I opted for black, wearing a simple pair of slacks and a light purple blouse. I made my bed to pass the time. After about a half hour, I had dried and styled my hair, brushed my teeth, and put on some makeup. I heard my mom stirring in her room and then I heard her footsteps as she went into her own bathroom. I could hear her moving around the bathroom through the thin walls, and then the sound of the shower being turned on on. It was only seven. I genuinely debated calling Brittany, knowing that she was awake for her own testimony, but I didn't want to wake up the rest of her family. I also knew that she was probably getting ready for her station visit.

Instead of calling Brittany, I killed time by putting away the clothes that I had folded before Brittany came over the previous. I stacked them neatly in my drawers, appreciating that there could be order in at least one part of my life when other parts seemed so chaotic. My mom knocked sharply on my door at 8:30, when I was sure that Brittany was sitting in some dimly lit interrogation room, talking to an investigator. The thought made me nervous.

"Santana, are you awake?"

I walked quickly to open the door, stepping into her line of view.

"Oh," she said. "You're up early."

"I went to bed early," I said flatly.

She was already dressed too, in an outfit that she often wore to formal events for work. It was a simple black skirt that cut off just below her knees, and she always paired it with a short-sleeved white shirt that had some ruffles around the collar. She had been wearing that outfit for as long as I could remember; she was far too frugal to purchase anything else when she had perfectly fine formal wear. Luckily, I rarely attended formal events with her, so I had little reason to be embarrassed.

"Oh," she said again. "Do you want to go now?" Even in her black heels, she was shorter than I was.

"Why would we leave now?" I asked, donning a scowl to show my irritation. Couldn't she remember the time of the testimony?

"I thought we could stop at the diner for breakfast," she said coolly. "But if you don't want to go…"

I bit my tongue. "Fine," I conceded. "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

I found my flats on the floor of my closet and put them on as I walked down the stairs and locked the door behind me. I got into the passenger's side of the car quietly, ignoring my mom. Leaving the house to do something important was strange; the last time I had been out of the house was when I was at Brittany's two days before, and then when I drove her home. Aside from that, I hadn't had any interaction with the outside world for two days. And I knew that in the outside world, particularly at my high school, there was a lot going on that I was ignoring.

We frequented one place only when we went out to breakfast, which was a rare occasion in itself. Our restaurant of choice was always Louis' Diner, and we usually went right after church. Because we hadn't gone to church in months, I hadn't been to Louis' in a long time. It was my mom's favorite because they served traditional breakfast food infused with traditional Mexican dishes. Mexican breakfast at Louis' was a favorite of my mother's and mine, even though we weren't Mexican. She appreciated the liberty that the cooks took in using spices that reminded her of the authentic Puerto Rican food she ate back in the day. I loved it too, so I never complained, but sitting across from my mother in a worn leather booth over spicy hash browns and cheap coffee sounded vastly unappealing, especially when I didn't trust my stomach to hold down any food.

The car was completely silent as we pulled into the nearly deserted parking lot; I assumed that most people were either at work on a Thursday morning or that they had no desire to leave their houses after the so-called massacre. I still didn't know how severe the shooting was, and I was mostly filling in the blanks with my imagination, which had always tended to exaggerate the truth. I wondered briefly how much information I was entitled to when I made my testimony. We crossed the lot to the diner, and the bell on the door chimed to alert the staff of incoming customers. The sound of the bell usually irritated me, especially when I was eating. Every time the door opened, there was a ring, but now it was a comforting sound that reminded me of better times with my mom. She hardly reacted to the bell. A few scattered customers looked up as we walked in, most of them appearing to be over sixty, and diner regulars. They went back to their eating.

Aside from the sounds of forks and knives scraping against the plates, the restaurant was eerily quiet. My mom approached the counter to tell the hostess we would need a table for two, and I took the time to look around the small diner, which hadn't changed much since the last time I'd been there. I counted the months on my fingers, finding that it had been eight. I sighed. The walls were still painted a faded burgundy and remained decorated with tacky framed prints of sombreros and the flag of Mexico. The carpet in the dining area was as gray and dingy as ever. The booths were still made of off-white leather, and the tables between them still looked heavily used. It hadn't changed at all. The woman behind the counter, who I believed to be Louis' middle-aged daughter, led us wordlessly to a small booth and presented us with coffee-stained menus. She seemed distracted, and I wondered if she had kids. We sat up against the far wall, relatively isolated from the smattering of diner occupants. The waitress left us with the menus and returned with a steaming pot of coffee, ready to pour it into mine and my mother's mugs. She didn't introduce herself, but the nametag on her 1950s style uniform identified her as Sofia.

"Coffee?" she asked, her accent giving the simple question a hint of a lilt. My mother nodded.

"No, thank you," I said, and she poured the steaming brown liquid into my mother's cup. My mom reached for the sugar container and took two Splenda packets, tearing the tops off of both and emptying them into her mug at the same time with a practiced hand.

"May I get you anything else to drink?" Sofia asked politely.

"I'll just take a water, thank you," I said.

"I'll have one as well," my mother added. The waitress nodded and turned away, attending to another customer a few tables away.

I picked at the paper of the placemat, which was a habit I'd developed as a kid. Usually by the end of breakfast at the diner I'd have torn of at least a fourth of the paper and rolled it into tiny paper balls. I ignored the judging eye roll I received from my mother. The placemat was covered in advertisements for local businesses and organizations, and there was even a decent-sized square that said "Go Columbine Rebels!" in bold, gray letters; the entire thing was black and white. There was a distorted image of a Columbine rebel, charging into an ad for a disability claims lawyer. I slid my plate surreptitiously to cover the box. I didn't want to look at any Columbine rebels anytime soon.

When I looked up, my mom was reading the menu with a careful stare. She had to know the Louis' menu by heart at this point, but every time we came she insisted on reading the description of every item. I picked up my own menu. My hands slipped against the plastic cover from sweat that I didn't know had collected on my palms. I took a nervous breath.

Mom noticed. "Are you nervous for today?"

She seemed uncomfortable asking the question, as though she wasn't prepared to have a discussion with me if I was nervous. I decided not to lie.

"A little bit," I admitted. I closed the menu, not having looked at it. I always got the same thing at Louis', so it really didn't matter.

Sofia returned with our waters. I thanked her as she walked away, taking a small sip of the water. The cool liquid felt nice on my dry mouth.

"I don't know what happened, exactly, and I don't want to give them the wrong information. I hope they give me some information, actually," I elaborated.

She seemed to understand, and brought her cup of cooling coffee to her lips. "I think that it's their job to corroborate the evidence you present to them, and if it's wrong, it's wrong. It's all about perception. You just have to be as objective as possible."

I nodded. She continued. "They'll probably fill you in on what has been released to the media after your testimony, just so you're informed. Having that knowledge will probably make it easier to understand what happened. It'll probably help your mental state."

I bristled a little at her comment on my mental state. I wasn't unstable; I knew that. Granted, from an outsider's perspective, especially my mother's, I didn't seem all that stable. I kept making paper balls, and there was a growing pile next to my sweating glass of water.

Sofia returned again after delivering a plate of steaming eggs to a table near ours. "Are you ladies ready to order?" she asked politely, uncapping her pen and taking out her order book to take down our orders.

"Yes," my mom said, looking back at the menu to double check her breakfast order. "I'll have the huevos rancheros and the sausage." She spoke the Spanish words perfectly, eliciting an approving smile from the waitress.

"And for you?" she asked me.

"I'll have the blueberry short stack," I said, reveling in the familiarity of the order. Sofia jotted it down.

"Is that all?"

My mother and I nodded.

She turned on her heel. "Your food will be right out."

She disappeared behind the counter. I took a long drink of water, gulping down half of it in one sip. My mom sipped her coffee slowly, ensuring that it didn't burn her tongue. We made eye contact over our drinks.

"I don't understand why this happened," she said sadly, shaking her head. She replaced her mug on the placemat where a coffee ring had formed.

"I don't either," I said in reply. "I just wish it could've been a normal day." The current paper I rolled between my fingertips dropped to my lap as I glanced down. A small letter 'n' was visible on the paper.

"It was in God's plan, Santanita. You're so lucky to be alive," my mother said seriously, and I shifted uncomfortably. I was lucky, but not everyone was. I clenched my jaw. Her hands curled further around her mug, the tips of her longest fingers touching. She seemed to recede into her thoughts, but it was only a few seconds before she spoke again, this time quieter. "I don't know how this town is ever going to recover."

I shook my head, agreeing with her, but unsure what else to say. She was right; the town wasn't small, not by any means, but tragedy before this had been relatively nonexistent. The town was safe. Kids could go out alone at night on weekends and return home perfectly safe. There were no homicides that I could remember, and no burglaries that were more than petty theft. Automobile accidents were infrequent. Now there was this scar on the town, a fresh wound, really, still bleeding. It would need to be cleaned, stitched, bandaged, and it would need to heal. The scarring would surely take decades to fade. Now that the actual tragedy had occurred, the grief of experiencing the recovery still remained. There would surely be memorials to attend and safety seminars to sit through. I couldn't imagine ever going back to that library.

Mama and I talked quietly of the proceedings that would follow the incident, and she managed to squeeze a little more information out of me that I had pieced together since the night after the incident. She attempted to prepare me for the testimony by asking general questions she probably took from crime shows, but it only made me more anxious. It was strange, but I struggled to remember the details that had seemed so vivid and unforgettable at the time of the shooting. It was like I was repressing the things I didn't want to remember. The placemat grew smaller, and the paper ball pile grew larger, and my glass of water, now just melting ice, soaked the placemat with cold condensation.

Sofia returned shortly with our steaming breakfasts. We ate in silence, and though the blueberry pancakes were once a favorite of mine, I struggled to choke them down. They seemed too dry against my sandpaper tongue. I overcompensated by pouring copious amounts of syrup over the stack, drowning each pancake methodically in the viscous substance, making them completely inedible. They syrupy bite I took tasted only of sugar, so I decided I was finished after just one pancake. My mother seemed to have difficulty eating her own dish; she pushed around her eggs and her sausage, taking small bites between long sips of coffee. She only ate about half of her dish, leaving the rest of the Mexican-style breakfast in a pile on the side of the plate farthest from her.

"We haven't gone to church together in quite some time, Santanita," my mom remarked.

"I know, mama. I was thinking about that." I cringed inwardly; I was in no state to have a conversation on my less than devout Catholic ways.

She sighed, blowing gray and black hairs alike from her forehead in the process. "I think we should start going together again. It will help you heal."

I gritted my teeth. "Of course. Over the summer I'll have a lot more time."

"Santana," she began.

_Here we go._

"I believe this is a sign from God. A sign that you need to renew your faith in him. God is eternal, but why wait until summer when you'll have so much recovery time in the coming weeks?"

She was interrupted by Sofia's return; she appeared at the table, her expression blank. "Finished?" she asked, extending her hands to take our plates.

"Si," my mother replied, also distracted. "We'll take the check." She looked out the window, even though there was nothing to see except for the parking lot. I merely nodded, adjusting my fork to make it easier for Sofia to take my plate. She showed no sign of appreciation.

"All I'm saying," my mother continued, "is that this is your chance for salvation and a better life."

I wrung my hands in my lap. "Okay," I agreed. "Okay. We can go this weekend." I felt defeated, but I knew that putting up a fight would be absolutely pointless.

Sofia returned and handed the check to my mother, who paid the bill in cash. Mama then tossed a wrinkled five onto the table and stood up from the booth wordlessly, smoothing out her black skirt. She seemed satisfied by my response. I dropped the last tiny ball of paper on my pile before copying her motion, feeling tremors return to my hands as I brushed nonexistent crumbs from my own slacks.

"Ready?" she asked.

_As ready as I'll ever be_, I thought.

I nodded and we left, walking to the car in a heavy, nervous silence. My own mother's hands trembled slightly where she wrapped them around the steering wheel, her knuckles white. It was comforting to know that I wasn't the only one struggling with the idea of me being a source of evidence for this turn of the century investigation. It was a lot. We both knew it.

My seatbelt felt constricting against my already uncomfortable clothes as we drove the fifteen minutes to the Jefferson County Sheriff's Department. The radio was on, but I didn't listen to it. I normally loved to listen to the radio, and when I was sure no one was around, I even sang to it in the house. Today was an exception, and even some of my favorite songs didn't register in my head. They did nothing to alleviate my nerves. I couldn't think of anything that could ease my stress, except maybe Brittany. But even that was a stretch.

I didn't have much time to think about it; we were pulling up in front of the Sheriff's Department, which was bustling with activity. Police cars were moving in and out of the parking lot in front of the building, and the faces of the policemen and women looked ashen and tired. The brick building was short, but dark. Along with the squad cars, a few students I recognized from school exited the building with their parents. No one smiled.

I didn't make eye contact with any of them as I entered the building, and I knew for certain my mom didn't either. She rarely paid attention to high school kids, especially ones I never interacted with. As soon as we walked in, there were more officers, rushing across the small lobby. Many of them held large boxes or stacks of paper as they walked, careful not to bump into any of the other people in the lobby. It looked and sounded like a crime show.

I stopped short, startled by the activity inside of the building, but my mother grabbed my wrist and tugged me towards the reception desk situated in the center of the room. A few other students sat with their parents on uncomfortable black chairs against the walls of the lobby, murmuring in low tones. It seemed as though the chairs had been brought in to accommodate the waves of people coming in and out of the station. Most of the high school kids didn't look up as I scanned their faces; they seemed preoccupied. I assumed they were also waiting to make testimonies. I wondered where Brittany was, and if she had left yet. I wondered if she still wanted to have dinner.

My mother was waiting impatiently for the receptionist to acknowledge her presence. The receptionist talked quickly into her headset, typing quickly into a computer. My mother's heels tapped on the gray carpet, but they failed to make any noise except for rhythmic, barely discernible thumps. It was another thirty seconds before the woman finally said, "Jefferson County Sheriff's Department, please hold," and adjusted her mouthpiece while she put the caller on hold.

"How can I help you?" she asked, turning her attention to my mother and me. The woman looked to be in her mid-thirties, but her bloodshot eyes drooped with lack of sleep. A mug half full of coffee sat next to the computer on her desk, next to a coffee pot, which looked to be quite low on coffee. It was only 10:15.

"My name is Maribel Lopez, my daughter Santana is here to make a testimony. We called in yesterday about a time," my mother spoke quietly, trying not to attract any attention from those in the lobby, even though it was abundantly clear that everyone was at the police station for the same reason.

"Of course, one moment," the receptionist said, holding up a finger. At first I thought she was going to pick up the phone again, but she returned to her computer, typing extremely fast. Her fingers flew across the keys. She tapped her red nails against the countertop as the computer processed the information she typed in. When the page loaded, she scanned the screen.

"Okay, I have you in at 10:30, is that correct?"

My mother nodded. "Yes."

"Okay, Santana," the receptionist told me. "I'm going to have you fill out this questionnaire; we're a little behind schedule today, so it might not be until 11 that one of our officer's can take you in." She reached under the desk and presented a clipboard to me. A pen dangled from the metal part by a piece of yarn, and a few pieces of paper were attached to the clipboard.

"Ms. Lopez, I'll also need you to fill out a questionnaire," she said, presenting my mother with a similar clipboard. My mother blew some loose hairs off of her forehead with an exasperated huff.

"Did the person you talked with on the phone inform you of the free counseling sessions we're providing? They're optional, but we recommend them."

"Yes," my mother said curtly, "they did mention that on the phone. When can Santana go to one? Will it take place with a group of students?"

The woman shook her head. "Most of the students giving witness testimonies in our office today have been most affected by the events of Tuesday morning, either because of proximity to the violence or personal closeness to the shooters or the victims, so those experiencing this type of trauma are advised to participate in one-on-one counseling. A staff of therapists from nearby hospitals will be here for the week to discuss the events with anyone that requires guidance with the students and teachers I just mentioned receiving top priority. That includes you, Santana, based on our current report." She checked her computer screen again. "Would you like to meet with one of our therapists? It wouldn't be a group session, you'd be the only one there." She looked at me expectantly. My mother looked at me also, and her dark eyes told me to say yes. She didn't want to be the one to listen to me talk about my feelings.

"Yeah, that sounds good," I said, looking down at the floor.

"Alright, great," the receptionist said, typing more information into the computer. "We'll work you in when your testimony is complete. The forms for the therapist are on your clipboard as well."

I glanced briefly at the small packet in the clipboard and found a sheet titled _Preliminary Psychological Evaluation_ before looking back up at the receptionist.

"Alright, honey," she said, reaching for her mug of coffee. "You're good to go. Fill out those forms for me and give the officer that calls you back will tell you what to do with them."

My mom followed me to two unoccupied chairs and we sat side by side. I uncapped the pen I had been handed and began to fill out some of the information on the top sheet of the clipboard, listing my name and our address and other important information.

"Santana, what are you doing?" my mother asked, snatching the pen away from me.

"Mama, I'm filling out the sheets," I said, grabbing at the pen that was clutched in her hand. "She told me to," I elaborated, nodding my head at the desk in the center of the room.

"Santana, this is important. Let me," she argued, swatting my hand aside and reaching to take my clipboard.

Rage bubbled up in my chest. "Give me the clipboard," I hissed. "I know it's important. I was _there,_ mom, I know. I should be filling it out. Stop treating me like a child." She'd pushed me too far. I had snapped.

She retracted, and I saw her disappear inside of her thick outer shell. I sighed. This was no time to be pissing of my mother, but it wasn't an appropriate time for her to be acting like I was too young to deal with this on my own. I needed to deal with this independently, which meant filling out my own paperwork. I needed independence, especially from her. I took the pen from her softly, recognizing that it was best not to yank it out of her grasp. She quietly filled out her own paperwork, avoiding eye contact with me and positioning her body so her shoulders were tilted away from me. She had always been the passive aggressive type. I rolled my eyes and answered the standard medical questions on the forms.

I looked up every few seconds, hoping to catch Brittany on her way out. I had no idea if she was still at the station, but at the pace that it seemed the testimonies were moving, it didn't appear as though she could've possibly gotten out of there in less than three hours. I looked for her blonde hair, hoping to have some sort of contact with her before I had to meet with an officer. I was desperate for a lavender hug.

A half hour delay stretched into forty-five minutes, and I still hadn't spoken a word to my mother. She sat patiently with the finished paperwork on her lap. I fidgeted next to her, tempted to doodle on the forms, but well aware that they were for professional use, not my bored graffiti. I tried to people-watch the other students and their parents, but none of them held my interest for more than a few seconds. I barely knew them, and everyone seemed preoccupied with paperwork or hushed conversations. I wanted to see Brittany among them.

A burly officer that I had seen walk through the main area multiple times approached the desk and spoke quietly to the receptionist. She handed him a stack of paper. He looked at it briefly.

"Santana?" he called, looking around the room. It was like a doctor's office, the way it operated; I stood quickly, holding the clipboard tight in my hand so that it wouldn't slip against my sweaty palms. Mama was permitted to accompany me into the room I would be testifying in, so she stood behind me and we walked towards the officer.

"Santana Lopez?" he asked again. "And are you," he looked at the top sheet of the papers in his hands again, "Ms. Lopez?"

We nodded, and he stuck out a hand, to me first, and then my mother.

"Officer Gallagher," he said. I shook his hand; it was meaty and warm, but not the nice kind of warm. A thin layer of sweat covered his balding forehead, and his pasty, chubby neck was stuffed into the sweaty collar of a wrinkled gray police uniform. He wedged two fingers in the collar after shaking our hands and adjusted his tie. Just like the receptionist, he looked exhausted. "Thank you for coming in," he spoke. "Let's get started, we're on a tight schedule. Follow me, please."

I followed the officer's wide, retreating form down a narrow hallway buzzing with the sounds of ringing telephones and whirring fax machines. Every door was closed, and the frosted glass on the doors made it impossible to see into the rooms lining both sides of the carpeted hallway. We reached a door identical to the doors lining the hallway and Officer Gallagher opened the door for my mother and me. He tugged at his collar again.

A black chair just like the one I had sat in in the lobby was positioned in the center of the windowless square room, across from another chair at a simple wooden desk. A third chair sat isolated in the corner of the room opposite the door.

"Have a seat here, please," Officer Gallagher directed, pointing at me and then to the black chair across from the desk. My mother sat in the corner chair and crossed her legs. "I'll take your paperwork."

We both unclipped our packets of paper from our clipboards and handed them to him. He glanced through them briefly to ensure that they were complete before placing them on the corner of the desk, which was empty aside from the papers the receptionist had given him and a nondescript black binder. Gallagher removed a pen from his pocket. I sat down in the black chair with my shoulders set straight against the back, my hands sweating with nerves.

* * *

**Federal Bureau of Investigation**

**Defendant:** Harris/Klebold

**Date:** April 22, 1999

**Case Number:** 99AO62

**Investigator:** Gallagher M.

Santana Lopez, date of birth November 17, 1981, 1013 W Fremont Ave, Littleton, Colorado 80218, telephone number (303)-923-9462, was interviewed at the Jefferson County Sheriff's Office in the presence of her mother, Maribel Lopez. After being advised of the identity of the interviewing agent and the nature of the interview, Lopez furnished the following information:

Lopez is a student at Columbine High School. Her first period class is an Advanced Placement Physics course taught by Mr. Branch. This period runs from 7:40 a.m. to 8:20 a.m. During second period, she has Calculus with Mrs. Luther. This class runs from 8:20 a.m. to 9:15 a.m. Second period is extended an additional five minutes to allow for the Rebel News Network announcements to be broadcast over televisions within the classrooms. Lopez does not specifically remember watching the announcements on April 20, 1999. She does not remember anything unusual about the announcements. Her third period class runs from 9:20 a.m. to 10:10 a.m. and is Spanish with Ms. Randolph. Fourth period Lopez has Geography with Mrs. Hagberg. This class runs from 10:15 a.m. to 11:05 a.m. From 11:10 a.m. to 11:40 a.m. Lopez has what is known as "A" lunch. Normally during her lunch period, Lopez would use the library to study or eat lunch in the cafeteria.

On April 20, 1999, Lopez remembers Mrs. Hagberg allowing her fourth period Geography class to use the library for research on a previously assigned paper. She believes she arrived at the library just after 10:30 a.m. She sat down at the table marked by number 19 on the attached diagram. She sat alone. Lopez had difficulty indicating at which tables other students were sitting when provided the same diagram of the Columbine High School library.

Lopez recalls working on the assigned Geography paper and leaving the table to look for a book in the reference section. Lopez remembers having a conversation with student Brittany Pierce regarding the location of a specific library book. Lopez and Pierce did not know each other before this interaction. The interaction occurred around the end of fourth period. Approximately five to ten minutes later, both students heard commotion from the floor below and a series of popping sounds. A female teacher later identified as Peggy Nielson then entered the library and yelled, "Everybody get under the tables! There's a kid out there with a gun!" Lopez provided a limited description of the teacher, recalling that she had brown hair and her shirt was bloodied. Pierce accompanied Lopez to table 20, the table closest to the reference section, where Lopez and Pierce sat under the table, with Lopez situated with her back to the northernmost table support. Pierce sat opposite Lopez. The two girls sat with their arms around each other.

Lopez heard a phone conversation between the same teacher that entered the library and what Lopez believed to be a 9-1-1 operator. Lopez cannot recall the exact details of the conversation, though she believes that the teacher was injured, which was later confirmed to be true. Lopez remembers hearing more popping noises and seeing smoke begin to fill the library, setting off the fire alarms. Lopez recalls hearing two males enter the library and demanding that everyone in the library to "get up" before revising their order to include only Columbine students wearing white hats. Lopez clarifies that athletes at Columbine High School frequently wear white baseball caps, a fact confirmed by many other students and faculty.

The gunmen began open firing within the library. Lopez cannot recall the exact number of shots fired, but she does remember the gunmen shooting at the windows on the west wall of the library. Lopez recalls hearing the two males laughing. She also recalls hearing one gunman say, "Peek-a-boo" before shooting under a table. Lopez was not in a position where she could see the events take place, but she can recall the sounds of the incident. Lopez remembers that the two gunmen spoke about blowing up the entire school.

Lopez believes that a person ran out of the library after a conversation with one of the gunmen, who continued to fire around the library. Lopez recalls seeing one of the perpetrators walk past her table, but they appeared not to notice Lopez and Pierce under the table. Lopez recalls that the suspect was wearing black combat boots. Lopez cannot recall the exact duration of the event. She believed the gunmen had left the library after hearing popping sounds from the hallways outside of the library. She assumed the gunmen had gone downstairs.

A male student then appeared on the east side of table 20, introducing himself as Finn Hudson. Lopez had not met Hudson before this time, although she does recall seeing him in school. Hudson helped Lopez and Pierce out from under the table. Lopez described him as being very tall and having brown hair. Hudson also had a white baseball cap tucked into the waistband of his jeans, which Lopez inquired about upon their meeting. Hudson explained that he had hidden his hat after hearing the suspects demand that all of the jocks stand up. Lopez believes that Hudson and Pierce knew each other before the event, but she is not certain. Pierce confirmed having previous contact with Finn Hudson in a separate interview.

Lopez recalls Hudson directing her and Pierce to the library exit and urging Lopez not to view the carnage on the floor of the library. Lopez then told Pierce not to look as well. The two exited the library through the main entrance with a small group of survivors. Lopez does not recall if group included faculty and students or just students. She cannot recall the names of anyone in the group with the exception of Brittany Pierce. She recalls that Hudson stayed behind to assist the injured in the library.

Lopez led the group to an exit on the west side of the school, which was the closest exit to the library. Lopez stated that the entire group walked quickly and did not speak. Lopez and Pierce exited the school onto the west lawn and ran to a SWAT team, who directed them to paramedics.

The information provided to the Jefferson County Sheriff's Department by Lopez is consistent with the testimonies of students Brittany Pierce and Finn Hudson. Lopez also stated that she has had very little exposure to outside media since the event. Despite being in close proximity to victim Cassie Bernall, neither Lopez nor Pierce indicated hearing any conversation between the gunman and Bernall when asked about the student.

Lopez described her backpack as a black two-strap bag with pink detailing, stating that the brand is known as Mobile Edge. She believes the bag contains approximately thirty dollars, her student I.D., and her notebooks and was left at table 19. Lopez also believes she left an open notebook on table 19.

* * *

Officer Gallagher was even sweatier when we finished the session, much to my alarm; the room was hardly warm enough to break a sweat, let alone produce the torrents of it that were sliding down his shiny head. He pulled at his collar even more frequently, grimacing as he yanked on his black tie. I sat uncomfortably while he asked me a series of incredibly formal questions. I answered them to the best of my ability, but it surprised me how much was difficult to remember. The questions helped me remember some things I didn't want to think about, but it was surprisingly easy to give a completely objective report to the overweight officer without breaking down.

Because I wasn't clear on most of what happened Tuesday, I asked him to tell me what he knew. It wasn't his responsibility for me to be informed, but he gave me the numbers anyway with a tug of his collar. Fifteen were killed, and twenty-one were injured. Twelve of the fifteen murder victims were students killed in the library, one was a teacher shot in the hallways of the school, and the final two deaths were the suicides of the gunmen. I received the news with numb acceptance. I knew that people had died; that wasn't news to me. I knew about the suicides. My reaction wasn't shock; I didn't feel an onslaught of tears or trembling, as I might have the day before or on Tuesday. I just met the new information with bitter affirmation. It couldn't be changed.

Mama sat quietly in the corner, but her presence was calming, despite our slightly less than agreeable interactions over the course of the morning. Knowing that I wasn't alone with this doughy officer was comforting. I heard her reach into her purse for a tissue at some points, but I didn't turn around to see her cry. This was hard for her. Officer Gallagher ended the interview abruptly after asking for a description of my backpack; I had never given a description of my backpack to anyone, and I stumbled over the details of the appearance and the contents of the bag. The officer explained that it was for identification purposes when we were permitted to collect our belongings from the school. I asked him when I would get my bag back, but he was unable to give me a straight answer. He estimated that we would return to school by the next week or the week afterwards and that the district was looking for other buildings for Columbine students to attend class in for the remainder of the year, but he did not know when the investigation would no longer need the evidence at the scene. He told me that the district would contact us as soon as more information was available.

We exited the tiny room and found ourselves again in the hallway, which was just as loud and as crowded as it had been before my witness report. An analog clock above the door leading to the main lobby told me that it was almost 12:30 pm. The receptionist was right when they said they were behind schedule. Officer Gallagher indicated that we should follow him, even though my mother and I knew our way back to the exit. She placed a bony hand on the small of my back, guiding me towards the lobby.

The officer was not walking towards the lobby, however; he continued deeper into the building, weaving through a maze of hallways. I attempted to remember the turns we were making so it was possible to backtrack, but we made so many that I couldn't remember them.

"Where are we going?" my mother asked. "Can't we leave now?"

"Aren't you signed up for the counseling? It says here you are," the tubby man said gruffly, pulling forcefully at his collar and gesturing to a paper in his black binder. I rolled my eyes; the man needed some looser shirts.

"That's today?" my mother asked, squinting her eyes. I was overcome with embarrassment.

"Yes, ma'am," Gallagher said, exasperated. "Unless, of course, you want to reschedule. But I don't see that being an easy thing to do with the amount of people we have coming through here." He shrugged and scratched his shiny head.

"Santana, are you okay to do the therapy now?" my mom asked. I nodded, sure that if I had made it through the testimony I would breeze through a counseling session. I had no idea what to expect from it, anyway.

"Sure, I guess," I said, picking at my fingernails.

"Right, that's what I thought," Gallagher said, slowing to a stop in front of a door identical to the other doors in the building. "Here you go," he said, opening the door for me to enter. He also held out some papers, which I grasped in my left hand. "You'll need those, give them to the therapist," he explained.

My mom interrupted. "Do I get to go in with her?"

"Mom, I don't know if–"

"No, ma'am, I'm afraid not. The one-on-one therapy is for students with trauma. I apologize, but you are welcome to any of our services if you believe you require them," the officer told her, shaking his head firmly. His neck fat flopped over his collar. I shuddered.

"I'll meet you back in the lobby, I guess," I told my mom, patting her hand awkwardly.

"Okay," she sighed. "Good luck."

"I'll be fine, mama." I smiled, and it felt genuine. Her close-mouthed smile was tired and tight, but was still real. Satisfied, I entered through the doorway. The officer immediately closed the door, obstructing my view of my mother standing in the station hallway looking small. I took a deep breath.

* * *

"Hi, are you here for an appointment?" a voice asked from behind me.

I whirled around to face a small redhead behind a desk exactly like the one from the previous room. She was quite petite in comparison to the officer; unlike him, she looked proportionate to the desk. Her ginger curls were so surprisingly buoyant for the rising spring heat and they bounced lightly on the shoulders of a pink cardigan.

"Hi," I said warily. "And yeah, I am. I'm Santana."

"Hello Santana, I'm glad you've decided to join me today. I'm Ms. Pillsbury." Her eyes were unusually round and seemed to bulge out of her head, but there was genuine kindness in them and in the gentle lines around her mouth. She did not shake my hand, and I did not extend mine.

"Would you like to take a seat?"

I realized I was standing in the middle of the room, completely oblivious to the empty chair across from Ms. Pillsbury's desk. It looked just like the testimony room, except for the paperwork on the desk, a bottle of hand sanitizer, and a small potted cactus. I sat down in my designated chair, and she followed, sitting behind the desk. Also on the desk, stacked next to the cactus, were some generic-looking pamphlets about trauma, depression, and loss. The titles were centered above cartoonish looking pictures. They were strange pamphlets, but I was curious about them; I made a mental note to take one before I left.

I offered out the stack of paper in my hand and she took it from me slowly, pinching the stapled corner between her thumb and her forefinger. I watched her curiously as she placed the forms in front of her on the laminated tabletop. Her hands hovered over the papers, as if she was hesitant about touching them again. She seemed nervous as she reached for the half-empty industrial bottle of green hand sanitizer. She pumped some into her hand and rubbed it thoroughly around her palms and her fingers, which looked raw.

"You've already given your testimony, correct?" she asked, finally lifting the papers and sifting through them. Her light brown eyes studied me intensely. I watched her hands. A pungent lemon smell permeated the air of the tiny room as she rubbed the sanitizer into her hands.

"Yes," I mumbled.

"How did that go?" She looked back at the papers.

"It was fine, I guess," I said nonchalantly.

"Good, good," she muttered. I gathered that she was merely going through formalities. I sighed, doubting that this would be worth my time. I just wanted to go see Brittany.

"It says here that you're seventeen. Does that make you a junior or a senior?" She looked at me again. Every time she looked at me her eyes looked more normal. I supposed that was a good thing.

"A junior."

"Can you tell me a little bit about yourself? What's school like for you?"

I opened my mouth to tell her, but she held up a finger, stopping me. "Also, I need to put this out there before we start, it's required. Not one word of this session will be used for investigative purposes, and you are not being monitored. Any notes I take are for my own use in the event that you would like to meet with me or any other therapist again. Is that clear?"

I nodded, relieved. I felt a little more comfortable. In the back of my mind I had considered the possibility that my psychological evaluation would be used in the case.

"Continue," she instructed, waving her hand.

"Well, uh, yeah. I'm a junior at Columbine, and school is, uh, was, I guess, pretty good," I stuttered. She waited. I was content that my explanation was sufficient and I made no move to fill the awkward silence.

"I'm going to need more than that, Santana," she chuckled. "Friends? Grades? Boyfriend?" She placed her palms face-down on the tabletop and leaned towards me, adjusting her body language to appear more friendly. It did not go unnoticed.

I didn't reply to the boyfriend piece of the question. "I get pretty good grades. I study a lot. All the time, really. Friends," I paused, "not so much. I did make a friend pretty recently, though."

Ms. Pillsbury nodded in understanding. 'What's this friend like?"

"Her name is Brittany. We were under the table in the library together," I said, looking down at my nails. They were looking sore from my constant picking and biting.

Ms. Pillsbury paled at my bluntness, but never broke eye contact. I assumed that most of her other patients must have avoided talking explicitly about the incident, but I could've been wrong. "Did you know Brittany before this?"

"No, I didn't," I replied. She seemed surprised by this.

"Have you seen her since Tuesday?"

"Yeah, I have," I paused, thinking of the times I had seen Brittany and how great those times were. "I went to her house on Tuesday because my mom couldn't pick me up from the school since she was working." Ms. Pillsbury frowned at this, and I could see gears turning in her head; she was making assumptions about my home life. "She came over yesterday and we watched a movie and she stayed for dinner. I really like her," I said, smiling. "As a friend," I added quickly, though I didn't have much of a reason for it.

Ms. Pillsbury nodded slowly, a small smile forming on her lips. It was a knowing smile, and it made me a little nervous. "I'm glad you've come out of this with a friend. It's certainly in your best interest to be able to talk to someone who has been through the experience with you. Have you talked about it with her?"

"No, not really. We've mentioned it, obviously, but there's no need for details right now, especially because we're both still so damn scared."

She jotted something down in her notes. "Do you feel safe with her?"

I had to think before replying. I thought about sitting so close to her, and being comforted after my nightmare. I thought of borrowing her clothes and watching _Forrest Gump_ and _Toy Story_ and making macaroni and cheese. She had caught me when I fell off of the counter.

"Yes, I do," I said firmly. "Very."

"I'm a little glad to hear that, Santana. From what you've told me, it seems as though there's some dependency developing in your relationship with Brittany. Do you feel this way?"

I was offended, to say the least. Her tone made the idea sound like a negative one. Dependent? On Brittany?

It was mostly just scary because she was right. We both knew she was right.

"I guess," I admitted.

She nodded. "I know right now feeling safe is important, especially after the trauma you both experienced. Just be careful about how much you depend on others. Independence is important for recovery. But do not, under any circumstances, imprison yourself to isolation."

She was right. Completely right. I felt guilty, but I covered that up with anger.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I told her harshly, looking at the wall so I didn't have to see the look on her face. "You don't know Brittany." I was snapping, and she knew it; she had pushed too far. Just like my mom.

"Maybe I don't, Santana. But please think about what I've told you," she relented, trying to smile at me again. I ignored it and sighed. I didn't need her help. I definitely wasn't dependent on Brittany, I decided.

"Do you want to proceed? I have more questions to ask you," she said, trying to move away from the touchy subject of my apparent dependency issues.

"Yeah, whatever," I replied, knowing that I could leave the tiny room at any point, but still curious about what she had to tell me, especially about my nightmares and how to make them stop. That is, if I ever told her about them. I wasn't totally comfortable.

She cleared her throat. "What sort of reactions have you had to the events of April 20th? How has your relationship with your family changed?"

"My mom and I have been off and on. Sometimes we argue, sometimes we talk about it together," I explained. I still refused to look at her. "But not a lot has changed since before what happened," I said, avoiding actually putting a name to the tragedy. "Our relationship has always been kind of rocky."

"I see." She wrote something on a notepad. Her frown lines grew more pronounced, but the expression never filled her face, which remained blank. "Do you have a relationship with any other family members?"

"No," I said firmly. "My dad left, and my mom's dad died when she was younger. And her mom kicked her out when she got pregnant with me."

I looked at her this time, interested to see her reaction. She didn't seem to have one, which was frustrating. I didn't really want her sympathy, but I wanted some reaction or validation that my home life sucked as much as I thought it did. There was none.

"Do you have any feelings of resentment towards these other family members?" she asked.

"I've never met them," I said rudely, the acid words rolling off of my tongue. This was familiar. I had the power now.

Ms. Pillsbury sighed. "Many people can harbor feelings of resentment towards family-"

I interrupted her. "Well, I don't."

The expression on her face was unreadable. It was somewhere between a grimace and a hard line of disappointment, but it was shrouded by an attempt at indifference. This lady clearly had some issues disguising her feelings. Shitty therapist.

"Have you been having any disturbing thoughts in the last two days?" she asked, turning a complete 180 from the previous questions. Her pen remained poised above her notepad, waiting to record the contents of my head on a legal pad.

I looked down at my hands and twisted my fingers around each other. "Yes," I admitted, deciding in a split second of submission that I actually needed this help, even if it was state-issued.

"Do you want to talk about them?" I couldn't completely tell, but she didn't seem to expect a response from me.

There were clear positives and negatives of telling her about my nightmares; I didn't want her to know me, and I didn't want to open up. I didn't need her help, or anyone's. But this was her job, and it was free, and I was barely sleeping.

"I have nightmares."

"Can you describe some of them to me?"

"They're different every time, but each one has been about the shooting. I've had," I paused to count, "three." The word 'shooting' had felt taboo throughout the day, but when I said it, it didn't feel like a scary word. Ms. Pillsbury didn't react to my use of the word, which made me feel better about saying it. "In the first one it was just like a replay of what happened, but I keep hearing the one guy say 'peek-a-boo,' because he said that to one of the people under the tables behind us. I just keep hearing it."

Her hand moved across her notes, leaving neat cursive in its wake. She waited to see if I was finished, which was a nice change from my mother, who always felt as though she needed to interrupt with her opinions. I decided to elaborate; I felt a need to fill the heavy silence. It was suppressing. "Brittany was in the second nightmare, and she needed my help. I think she got shot, but I didn't see it. And then last night," I looked down, remembering the terrifying dream, "I was in one of the hallways, and I was holding a gun. It was bloody. And then the police or something showed up and killed me."

"Your dreams sound extremely vivid. Dreams often contain symbols of struggles in your waking life. Do you think this might be true?"

"I don't know much about dreams," I confessed. "But probably." I liked the idea of symbolism. Symbols could explain the nightmares. I hoped to God that holding a rifle in my dreams didn't make me homicidal.

"Reliving the tragedy in your nightmares is normal, even common. Most of the people I've talked to this week have all had similar nightmares."

I nodded. I was glad that it wasn't abnormal, but it didn't make the reality of the nightmares any less scary, especially I wouldn't be any less alone after the sun went down.

"You being the one holding the gun indicates a search for control and authority. Do you feel as though you're lacking control in your life?"

"After Tuesday, yes," I told her. "I felt completely powerless. I still feel powerless. I feel guilty," I said, looking down again. "Guilty I didn't do anything, and guilty that so many people were killed and I wasn't." I was pouring my heart out to her now, and there was no turning back.

_Fuck it,_ I thought. _I need this. And I'll probably never have to see this lady again if I can get these nightmares to stop._

"Guilt is normal, Santana, but it isn't all that rational. You couldn't have done anything to help anyone, and I would say that you're lucky to be alive right now. The best thing you can do is to rectify the victims' deaths by living your own life to the fullest. Remembering the victims in your daily life is more than enough. Does that make sense?"

I nodded slowly, drinking in the information. She was right again. There really was no legitimate reason to feel guilty. And no legitimate reason for me to call her a shitty therapist. I frowned.

"You will feel guilty, all of us will. Tragedy does that to everyone. The nightmares will become less frequent as the trauma fades, which will happen with time. I don't see any signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, so I'm not worried about that," she said, waving a hand through the thick air. I murmured my agreement.

"The only things I can tell you to do are to keep a regular sleep schedule. Avoid alcohol and nicotine. They'll disrupt sleep patterns. Exercise and maintain a well-balanced diet, too. They'll help you sleep better. Understand?"

I nodded. Her eyes widened impossibly further with her smile, making her look like the cartoonish figures on her pamphlets.

"I'm a mental health professional, so I'm not really qualified to help you if your nightmares persist. I would recommend seeing your doctor for some sleep medication if the nightmares get any worse or their frequency increases."

I let the information sink in. "Okay," I replied, adjusting the hair on my shoulder so it laid flat against my neck, which was growing warmer the longer we spent in the windowless room.

After taking a few notes and shuffling her papers around, Ms. Pillsbury looked back up at me over the desk. She looked exhausted, but her bloodshot eyes were still wide open. "Do you have any other problems you want to talk about?" I shook my head. "You can tell me anything, really. Remember, this session is free." She clasped her bony pink hands together on the center of her desk. She sat up pin-straight, looking me dead in the eyes.

"Really," I insisted. "I have nothing to tell you." I folded my own hands on my lap, over my crossed legs. I was getting warmer and warmer.

"You still have ten minutes, but we can finish now, if you want," she informed me with a shrug, capping her pen.

"I think I'm done," I said slowly as I uncrossed my legs.

"Alright, I'll show you back to the lobby," she said curtly, standing from behind her desk. Her therapist smile remained plastered on her bright face. I followed her out of the door, turning to glance at the pamphlets next to the cactus. I didn't take one.

We exited into the hallway, which was only marginally cooler than the therapy room. Ms. Pillsbury led me through the maze of corridors, weaving around officers and students I recognized from school. These students I acknowledged; I didn't know them, but it was an unspoken fact that we were in this together, whatever 'this' turned out to be. It was communicated with a nod, but no smile. I passed three different students with three different officers; I didn't see the tubby officer that listened to my testimony.

As we approached the lobby, I slowed from a brisk walk to a stop. "Ms. Pillsbury?" I asked, hoping to get her attention. She stopped, and her pink and yellow skirt swirled around her legs as she paused.

"Yes, dear?" She smiled brightly. Her perfect curls bounced.

"Thank you, for, um, listening," I said. Her smile became warmer.

"Of course, Santana. If you ever need someone to listen again, give me a call."

I smiled back. The therapist reached into her pocket, brought out a single white rectangle, and placed it in my open hand. I grasped it tightly, careful not to misplace it, as my pants didn't have pockets. We entered the lobby, where I immediately looked past the secretary to see my mom sitting against the far wall next to a few other parents. She sat completely still straight, with her shoulders back, and her legs firmly on the floor, but she seemed to be withering within her hardened exterior. Her jaded brown eyes gave her away. One of her hands fingered the golden cross around her neck.

Ms. Pillsbury saw my line of sight and assumed a course of direction towards my mother, who stood to meet us when she saw me and offered her hand politely to Ms. Pillsbury to shake. The therapist completely ignored the intention of the outstretched hand, but compensated by sticking a contact card into my mother's palm. She looked at it, confused as to why she was getting a business card in lieu of an introduction.

"Emma Pillsbury," she said formally, drawing her hand back and clasping both of her hands behind her back. She smiled stiffly.

"Maribel Lopez," my mom replied, squinting at the redhead.

"It was a pleasure working with Santana today, you have a great kid on your hands," Ms. Pillsbury said. Her voice wavered slightly. She was intimidated by my mom.

My mother stood up a little straighter and looked the therapist up and down, sensing weakness. "Yes, I know," she stated, setting her mouth in a hard line. Ms. Pillsbury merely nodded. "We should get going, Santanita. Are we okay to leave now?" Mama asked Ms. Pillsbury, reaching to the floor to pick up her purse.

"If you took care of the rest of the paperwork, you're all set," she replied, nodding her head enthusiastically. Her curls bounced wildly and her brown eyes stared ahead.

"Okay, mija, let's go," mama said, taking my wrist in her bony hand. "I did the paperwork while you were with her," she said, gesturing towards Ms. Pillsbury, whose name she had obviously forgotten. She slipped her purse onto her shoulder as we walked towards the doors.

I turned around to make eye contact with the tiny redhead, who was watching us exit the police station. "Goodbye, Ms. Pillsbury, thanks again," I told her. My mother tugged on my wrist.

"You're welcome, Santana. Call me if you need anything," she said with a smile.

We exited through the sliding doors into the parking lot and my mom dropped my wrist. I rubbed the reddening skin and frowned. She had been gripping my wrist tightly.

"I'm glad to be out of there, that place is depressing," she said bluntly, clicking her tongue. Her heels clicked against the ground in time with her step. I lengthened my stride to catch up to her brisk walk as a police cruiser drove past.

"I know," I agreed. "I'm glad we left. What time is it?"

"Almost two," my mom informed me. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really," I told her as we approached the car. She unlocked it and climbed into the driver's side. I got into the passenger's side of the car and buckled my seatbelt.

"Good, because I need to go food shopping. There's nothing in the house," she told me. "I'll have to go into work on Saturday because I'm taking a personal day today," she said. "So I can't go when I usually do." I frowned. My mom never worked on Saturdays.

"Why aren't they making exceptions for parents of Columbine students? Don't you think you should be allowed to stay home with me?" I sounded desperate, and I knew it.

My mother shook her head and turned out of the parking lot. "Santana, you're a smart girl. If they let all of the nurses have time off, who would treat the victims?" She pointed to her temple and tapped it twice. "Think."

I responded by looking out of the window and resting my head on my hand. It sounded unreasonable to me, but I mostly didn't want to have to occupy myself for the entirety of Friday and Saturday. Mom would have the car, so I couldn't go anywhere, even if I wanted to. If I wanted to make plans I'd have to rely on Brittany to get transportation, which could be made difficult by her lack of a driver's license. I sighed. It was going to be a lonely week. I was beginning to miss school; it provided a distraction from this hellish in-between of waiting for answers.

"I assume you won't come with me?" my mother suggested, inflecting the sentence to guilt me into coming with her.

"No, I'll stay home," I told her, rubbing my jaw with my thumb. I hated grocery shopping, and she knew that.

"I'll drop you at home before, then," she decided. I watched the trees go by outside of the car and nodded into my hand.

I had tried to avoid thinking about Brittany all day, especially after what Ms. Pillsbury told me. I clutched her business card in my left hand. Brittany had invited me over for dinner, though, and I needed to call her. I was a little nervous about calling her, in case she had forgotten about the invitation, or changed her mind. She had invited me over for dinner casually, and we hadn't set any details. It was highly possible she hadn't met anything by it. After all, we'd seen each other a lot in the last two days, and maybe that was enough for her.

We turned onto our block and pulled into the driveway in front of our house. Yellow and white flowers in the dirt around the house had begun to bloom, and the afternoon sun was high in the sky, warming the pavement. The air was growing warmer as April came to an end, and I was growing uncomfortable in my slacks. My mom walked ahead of me to unlock the side door of our house and I followed her inside.

"I'm going to change and then I'll go out," she said, slipping off her heels as she walked towards the stairs.

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. I doubted she was even expecting a response. I took off my own flats and went upstairs, taking the steps slowly. In my room, I slipped out of my slacks and put on a pair of cotton shorts and my Alanis Morissette t-shirt. Feeling infinitely more comfortable, I walked slowly back down the steps, towards our landline. The red light on the answering machine was blinking. I figured I'd listen to the message first and then call Brittany. My pointer finger found the button.

"_You have two new messages. To listen to the first message, press pound."_

I pressed pound.

"_First message,"_ came the automated voice. "_Thursday, April 22__nd__, 11:46 p.m."_

"_Hey Santana, it's Brittany, it's almost 12, and I figured I should call you… I know I invited you over for dinner tonight, but my mom told me this morning that my grandparents are driving in from Carbondale to stay with us. I need to be with them for dinner, so I have to cancel our plans… I'm really sorry. I'm guessing you're still at the station. I'll call you again when I get the chance."_

My heart both sank at the short message. Hearing her voice was nice, but knowing I couldn't see her was massively disappointing. I put the phone back in its cradle without even listening to the second message. My mom came down the stairs in more casual pants and a lighter shirt.

"Was that the answering machine? Who called?" she asked, slipping a pair of shoes onto her feet and taking her keys from the dish by the door.

"Brittany," I replied glumly, unable to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

"What'd she say? You sound upset."

"I can't go over there for dinner, her grandparents are visiting." I looked at the floor.

"Good, you can spend time with me. You can help make dinner when I get back from the store," she informed me as she picked up her purse and opened the side door.

I sighed, not looking forward to it in the least. "Okay, mama."

"Adiós, Santana."

"Bye," I responded flatly. I walked into the living room, angry and disappointed, but mostly lonely. I wasn't angry with Brittany, really, I knew she needed to spend time with her family. It was beyond frustrating that I wouldn't get to see her when I really wanted to tell her about my testimony and about Ms. Pillsbury.

_Don't be dependent, Santana_, I thought. _You need to learn how to be alone._

I took deep breaths as I flopped onto the couch on my back. I balled up the material of the hem of my t-shirt in my fists as tears threatened to fall from my eyes.

_Don't you dare fucking cry, Lopez._

Crying was for wimps. Instead, I took measured breaths and thought of anything but her. Unfortunately, anything but Brittany meant the shooting, which I had been repressing for almost two days. There was nothing else to think about. Desperate for distractions, I grabbed the remote from the coffee table and turned on the TV. It was still on the news channel, so I found a channel that was playing cartoons. I don't know how long I lay on the couch for, but after a while, I fell asleep to an episode of _Angry Beavers_.

The sound of my mom's car pulling into the driveway woke me up. Startled, I shot into a sitting position; I couldn't have been asleep for very long, but I hadn't had a nightmare, which was comforting. I was mildly annoyed for falling asleep, because now I had thrown off my sleeping schedule. Adjusting my shirt and pulling my fingers through my messy hair, I walked into the kitchen. The door opened and my mom stepped into the kitchen, brown grocery bags in her arms. She placed them on the countertop.

"What happened to you?" she asked critically, eyeing my appearance.

"I fell asleep on the couch," I informed her.

"Ah," she offered, clucking her tongue softly and shaking her head. I rolled my eyes. "Unpack these groceries and start putting things away, please," she instructed as she disappeared out of the side door for more bags. I took a carton of milk from one of the bags and placed it in the fridge. After removing some dry goods from another bag and placing them in the pantry, I glanced at the clock. It was already 5:30. My stomach rumbled.

My mom walked back into the kitchen with more brown bags in her arms. "What took you so long?" I asked her. "You were gone for over two hours."

"I went to church first," she stated simply.

"Oh," I said flatly. "That makes sense." Mama didn't reply. She went about removing the groceries from the paper bags as usual.

Burning with curiosity, I asked her, "What's going on at church?" My mother shot me a look that told me I shouldn't be asking so many questions. Good Catholics didn't ask questions.

"There were many people there praying. Some of the funerals will be held there this weekend. They are open to the public, if you'd like to go."

"I'll think about it," I said, but I had already made up my mind. I didn't want to go.

"I will be going, if you decide to join me," she said simply, placing a bag of carrots in the fridge.

I nodded.

* * *

We had spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. I made the red sauce while mom prepared and cooked the meatballs. We ate quietly at the kitchen table, and I missed Brittany's presence terribly. I wanted to poke her feet with mine under the table and see her red sauce smile, but there was no one in the seat beside me. I took a shower while my mom cleaned up from dinner before redressing in my t-shirt and shorts and joining her on the couch. She was watching the evening news, and pictures of my school flashed across the screen, but I didn't feel the need to get up and leave the room, as I had the previous night. I sat and watched, my wet hair on my shoulder, as students that I vaguely recognized were remembered by candlelight vigils at various Littleton landmarks. The killers' pictures were shown repeatedly. I hardly knew them, but I recognized them from classes in previous years. I looked away when their pictures were shown. Mom and I didn't discuss the images on the TV, we just watched.

Around 9:30, my mom left to go to bed with a stiff goodnight hug. Watching the news coverage by myself felt like watching a horror movie alone, so I turned the TV off and sat in the living room for a few minutes with nothing but the streetlamps infiltrating the darkness of the empty room. After the noises from the second floor stopped, I went upstairs into my own room. It was also bathed in the glow of the streetlamps outside. I decided not to turn on any lights. In my bathroom I brushed my teeth before returning to my bedroom and falling into bed on top of the covers.

I watched the hours change on my digital clock, unable to fall asleep. It neared midnight. I tossed and turned, trying to conjure up some exhaustion that would allow me to rest. My bed seemed too hot everywhere, and I couldn't get comfortable. I kept thinking about the faces on the TV, and Brittany. She hadn't called.

As my eyes were closing, a sharp tap on my bedroom window startled me. Figuring it had to be the tree in front of the house, I ignored it. But then there was another tap. And then two more, each sounding only a split second apart.

_What the hell?_

Nervous, I crawled to the foot of my bed, where I could reach the window. I pulled open the blinds, squinting into the darkness to see past my reflection. At first, I saw nothing. Suddenly, a pebble hit the window right in front of my forehead, making me go cross-eyed. Completely freaked out, I slid to the side and lowered myself down to my stomach, hoping to hide myself from view. Another pebble hit the window.

_Who the fuck is throwing pebbles at my window?_

Fed up, and confident that the pebble-thrower wouldn't hurt me, I grabbed the sill and threw open the window. It squeaked against its frame and slid open a few inches. Cool night air rushed in and goosebumps rose along my bare arms and legs. I glanced nervously at my door, hoping I hadn't woken my mother. Grunting, I put my weight on the glass and pushed up. The window slid up again, letting in even more night air. I leaned outside, looking around and down at the ground. The ground was invisible in the darkness below me.

"Who's there?" I hissed, straining to see any movement in the yard. There was none.

"Santana!" A voice whisper-yelled. It was hesitant. "Santana, down here!"

The voice was female, but otherwise unidentifiable. A glimmer of hope manifested itself in my chest. I looked down into the darkness, but there was no face to put to the name.

"Can you let me in?" the voice whispered, a little louder. It cracked in the middle. It was almost directly below me.

"Can you tell me who 'me' is?" I asked, a smile tugging at my lips.

There was a pregnant pause, during which a sliver of doubt was born into my brain, but then she responded. "It's Brittany!"

"Brittany who?" I asked, leaning on my elbows on the window and stealing a glance at my bedroom door.

I was well aware that smiles didn't make any noise, but I could've sworn I heard hers. She stepped back from the shadows against the house, and I could finally see her. Her shadow stretched in front of her as she backed into the light of the streetlamp. Her hair shined.

"Brittany Susan Pierce, of Littleton, Colorado," she said, and I could see her grin this time. Her face was still obscured in shadow, but I could make out her white teeth and the whites of her eyes.

"That should suffice, Ms. Pierce," I whispered down. Brittany giggled in reply. I leaned out of my window, watching her with a dopey smile on my face, until she started rubbing her arms.

"Do you think you could let me in? It's kind of cold out here," she said, jumping up and down in the grass to stay warm. Her bare legs were visible under a pair of pajama shorts.

I felt my face burning. "Hold on," I whispered down to her. "Go wait on the front porch."

The floorboards didn't creak when I crossed my bedroom floor. I opened my door, wincing in anticipation of a squeak that never came. I breathed a sigh of relief. A glance down the hallway told me that my mother was still in bed; her door was closed, as usual. I tiptoed quickly down the stairs, nervously adjusting my t-shirt and fixing my hair. I resisted the urge not to laugh in excitement. Brittany was here, visiting me at midnight, throwing pebbles at my window. My smile nearly split my face.

When I got to the front door, I waited for a few seconds to collect myself. I shook off my schoolgirl grin, which I hadn't thought twice about, and checked my breath on my hand. It still smelled like toothpaste. To make sure I wasn't letting a complete stranger into my house, I peeked through the window next to the door to find Brittany, in the flesh, with her back to me. She was watching my bedroom window. I knew it was Brittany by her blonde hair and her long limbs. Sure enough, when she turned to face the front door, I could make out the curve of her nose and her lips in the shadows. My hand found the lock and I turned it before grasping the bronze handle and pulling the door open.

She was only backlit by the streetlight, so I couldn't see all of her features, but I could see a glint where her eyes and her smile were. Before I could speak, she was practically on top of me, wrapping me in a bear hug. Startled, it took me a few seconds to hug her back. Her silky hair was cold from being outside, but her cheek was warm where it pressed against my neck.

"Britt," I laughed softly, "what are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," she whispered, stepping back.

"Why?" I asked curiously, fiddling with the hem of my t-shirt, nervous about making eye contact, even in the dark.

"I thought you might like some company, since I canceled dinner," she explained. "Sorry about that, by the way."

I shook my head. "Don't be sorry," I whispered. She shrugged. "But uh," I paused, collecting my thoughts, "how did you get here?"

"We really don't live that far apart, Santana," she told me. "When you drove me home last night I memorized the roads so I could walk here if I felt like it."

She said it so casually. It wasn't a big deal that she'd committed the route to memory, it was just something she'd wanted to do. I beamed, and my heart nearly exploded. Brittany was already proving herself to be a fantastic friend.

"You didn't have to do that," I told her, smiling at the floor so she couldn't see me blush. She shrugged.

"Does that matter? I'm just glad you're awake," she admitted. "Wait, you were awake, right?"

Briefly, guilt flashed across her dark face. "Yes, I was. I couldn't sleep."

"Me neither," she breathed. "I thought, uh," she paused and scratched the back of her neck. I raised my eyebrow. "I thought maybe you'd let me sleep here? I mean you don't have to, if that's weird, but a lot of people say that being with someone else helps with nightmares, and I knew you were having nightmares," she trailed off. I waited patiently for her to finish rambling, curious about what she had to say. My smirk obviously wasn't visible in the dark, because she kept talking. "I mean like, I could sleep on your floor, or we could just talk all night, if you want. Or I could walk home."

"Sh," I whispered, taking a step forward to place a single finger on her lips. They were deliciously warm, and I was being deliriously impulsive. She glanced down at my hand and smiled. I pulled away. "I would love it if you stayed here. Sleeping or talking would be great. But my mom is upstairs, so we have to be really quiet."

"Awesome," she breathed, grinning. "Can we go up to your room?"

"Sure," I shrugged. "Tiptoe." I walked towards the stairs, testing my weight on the first step before proceeding with the utmost care up the staircase.

"I'm so good at tiptoeing," she whispered back, gripping the banister.

I shook my head fondly and repressed the urge to laugh. She was such a dork. I felt like I could relax around her, and I rarely felt like that. I would even venture to say I never felt like that around anyone. She already seemed to know me better than anyone.

We were soon in my bedroom, giggling quietly. Brittany fell onto her back onto my bed, which was disheveled from my tossing and turning. She spread her arms like she was making a snow angel and kicked off her flip-flops. She rolled over so she was face down on my comforter.

"Your bed is warm," she mumbled, running her hands over the bedding.

In a moment of extreme self-assurance, I asked, "Do you want to sleep there? It's big enough for the two of us."

She sat up, looking me in the eyes. The lighting in my bedroom was better because of the open window; the light from the street filtered in, illuminating her face. "Really?"

I smiled, relieved that she didn't seem to find my invitation weird. "Yeah, if you want."

She smiled back. "I'd love to."

"Cool," I murmured. I walked towards my bed. My heart pounded; mostly at the idea that I was probably disobeying my mother's rules. It wasn't like she'd ever banned me from sneaking people into the house; she'd never had to. But it was one of those rules that went unspoken, and I knew having Brittany tiptoeing up the stairs into my bedroom would probably merit some sort of punishment. That is, if she ever found out.

I disregarded the inevitable consequences and let myself feel excited for spending the night with my friend. I would deal with my mom in the morning. Brittany had moved over to the wall side of the bed and was propped up on two of my pillows. I laid on my bed a little less than a foot apart from her, not wanting to cross any boundaries. Brittany rolled onto her side to face me, so I did the same, bringing us slightly closer together. I felt drawn to her, like a magnet. It was almost as if I would fall straight into her if I weren't trying to put distance between us. She smiled at me, and I smiled back, reveling in the warmth that wrapped around my heart.

Brittany tugged the comforter, pulling it all the way up to her chin. She looked like a floating head on my headboard. "You warm yet?" I asked her, burrowing into my own pillow to stay warm. The cool night air coming through the window had left a slight chill in the air.

"A little," she murmured, but she shivered as she said it. "Why are you so far away?" She pouted, sticking out her lower lip.

Moments later I learned that Brittany S. Pierce was the biggest cuddler known to man. I felt awkward as I moved closer, but the effect of our closeness was immediate, and it was welcome; warmth from both of our bodies mixed between us, and I already felt the goosebumps on my arms and legs dissipate. She took the intimacy a step further and wrapped her long arms around my torso. They were strong arms, and I let out a content sigh as I sank into her. My right arm remained pinned against my own body, but my left hand found her side and my fingers rested on her ribcage. My fingers rose and dipped with her slow breathing.

She smelled of lavender, just as she always did. Tonight she wore a simple white t-shirt over shorts not unlike mine. I couldn't imagine walking the mile or two from Brittany's house to mine in a thin cotton t-shirt and shorts. The pajamas were still cold on her body. We remained at eye level, and the height difference between us left a good three or four inches between my bare feet and hers. I flexed my toes into her calf, and she giggled, wrinkling her nose.

"That tickles," she said, poking me lightly in the stomach. I smiled while she pulled me closer to her until our stomachs touched. Hers was flat against mine. My heartbeat stuttered to a gallop as she sighed deeply and nestled into my neck, her chin on my chest. Her hair brushed my jaw. Frozen, I hesitated to breathe with her so close to me. I was hesitant to even move, worried that one wrong movement would create distance between us. Her hair cascaded down her back, reflecting the muted yellow lighting. It was beautiful.

I felt incredibly tempted to slide my left hand from her ribs to her hair. I wanted to run my fingers through it, feel how soft it was. Every sigh that she breathed into my neck sent tingles up and down my body, and I dove into sensory overload. My breathing didn't match hers; it ran with my heartbeat.

"What are you thinking about?" she whispered into my neck, yanking me out of my daze. It was a struggle to overcome the feeling of her speaking onto my skin and to actually think about what she was saying.

_Your hair._

"The police station," I fibbed.

"What about it?" She inquired, removing her head from the crook of my neck to make eye contact. I missed the physical contact, but when our eyes met, I forgot about it.

"Uh," I faltered, and lost my train of thought. I was totally lost in her.

"I don't believe that you aren't tired, you're so distracted," she laughed, nudging my shoulder with her own.

"I'm really not tired," I insisted. "I promise!"

She chuckled. "Whatever you say."

"Well to answer your question, smartass, I was thinking about my therapy session. Did you go to one?" She nodded her head, making her hair slide up and down the back of her cotton t-shirt. The light moved with it, and it was positively mesmerizing.

"What'd you think of it?"

"I thought it was pretty helpful," I whispered, still aware that my mom was sleeping just across the hallway. I also hadn't forgotten that Brittany's arms were still around me. "I talked to her about my nightmares."

"What was her name?" Brittany asked, adjusting herself under the covers, which caused our hips to touch. My pulse skyrocketed.

"Ms. Pillsbury," I managed. "She had these like…"

"Bambi eyes?" Brittany offered with a smile.

"Yes!" I laughed. "That's exactly it." Brittany's chest moved against mine as she laughed, and my breath caught in my dry throat. I'd never been so intimate with someone before. This time when she laughed, she scrunched up her nose. She always seemed so happy to make me laugh.

"I had her too," Brittany said through her smile. "She was cool."

I made my tone more serious. "She gave me some tips on getting rid of the nightmares. They seem pretty legitimate."

"What'd she tell you?"

"Exercise, eat well. Stuff I didn't really think of before, you know?" Her hands were low on my back, right around my waistband. Tingles erupted down my back, and I subconsciously pressed myself closer to her. I found my eyes sliding from her eyes to her lips, and back again. She was stunning, like a Greek goddess, and flawless. I was envious of it. I craved closeness with her, as if some of her beauty would rub off on me.

"Totally," Brittany said seriously, oblivious to my observing. "Do you ever go running?"

I laughed. "Not at all. I don't exercise much, but I probably should."

"Would you want to come running with me in the mornings? It can be my repayment for driving lessons. I can teach you how to run. It's fun," she insisted, and her face lit up at her foolproof idea. "Then I could help with your nightmares." She smiled widely.

"I don't know, Britt. I'm not much of an athlete, and you're a cheerleader," I trailed off. "I'd be holding you back."

Brittany's face fell, and I instantly felt guilty. I tightened my grip on her side, preventing her from drawing away. "Please? I'll make it fun."

I rolled my eyes playfully, all of my trademark stubbornness out the window. "Fine."

Brittany tapped my lower back with her fingers in excitement. "Score."

I smiled at her through the darkness. We stayed up until two a.m., discussing exercise, Brittany's grandparents, driving lessons, and summer. We talked about college plans and nerves about seeing our classmates again and what being back at school would be like. The tingles reappeared every time Brittany's hands moved on my back or her front moved against mine. A warm feeling settled in my lower stomach and radiated to my chest and my legs. My head buzzed all night, intoxicated with lavender detergent and Brittany's shampoo.

I can't remember which one of us fell asleep first, but as I was drifting off, in that state of barely there in-between, I mumbled, "I feel like I know you so well."

She held me tighter and murmured her agreement in my ear as I sank into a deep sleep.

* * *

**A/N: **For the record, I have no idea if Louis' Diner was built before 1999, but it does exist. Also, I believe the witness testimonies were given on April 20th, not the 22nd, and it has come to my attention that students were not allowed to leave Columbine with their parents after the shooting. They were bussed to one of the elementary schools in the area for many hours before parents were permitted to pick up their children. I apologize for the discrepancies in my telling of these events. However, the format in which Santana's testimony appears is accurate; I went through the FBI Columbine database, which is published online, to view the witness reports. The Columbine file doesn't have a table of contents though, so it took me quite some time to find the witness reports. From here on, there will be fewer historical elements to the story and much more of Brittany and Santana, which will enable me to write the chapters faster, and they'll probably be more interesting. Thanks for sticking with me.


	5. Chapter 5

_Friday, April 23__rd__, 1999_

To say I was confused when I woke up would be an understatement. I wasn't sprawled across my bed, as I usually was in the mornings. Most nights I slept on my stomach, facing the window, with my arms spread-eagle on either side of me. I took up the entire bed. This morning I was on my side, facing my dresser, and three hands rested on the rumpled sheets in front of my chest. Alarmed, I blinked rapidly, staring at the hands.

Two of them were definitely mine, and the third had long, white fingers. It was attached to a pale arm, which wound delicately over my waist. The hem of my t-shirt had ridden up to about my ribs, leaving a few inches of exposed skin, which buzzed warmly where the arm lay across it. A thumb rested on the back of one of my hands, and I could feel the definite shape of someone's front pressed against the length of my back. A toned calf was wedged between my slightly bent legs.

Brittany was still in my bed.

I don't know why I had assumed that she would've gone home in the middle of the night, but she hadn't. Now I was presented with the almost impossible task of hiding Brittany from my mother, who would certainly be getting up for work soon, based on the weak morning light filtering in through the still-open window. The comforter that had been over us the night before was no longer at our necks. I had probably kicked it off, which I did frequently; it was now crumpled in a gray-black heap over our intertwined legs. My motion must have disturbed Brittany, who sighed into my t-shirt, mumbling incoherently. Soft blonde hairs ticked the back of my neck and I couldn't help but smile.

Also confusing, but welcome, was the absence of a vivid nightmare. I had woken up of my own accord, and not screaming or crying or shaking. I didn't have very long to think about it, but I knew it was because of Brittany. Her theory the night before had been correct. I was grateful.

I heard the shower in my mother's bathroom come on, and the various sounds of her getting ready for work. I groaned inwardly. I didn't want to move from my intimate position with Brittany, and doing so could make her realize how close she had slept to me; it would shatter the blissful satisfaction I had laying in bed pressed against her. Knowing I had to be rational, I gently gripped Brittany's wrist and lifted her arm from around me, immediately missing the closeness. I rolled to the side, untangling our legs, and let her arm rest on the mattress in front of her. Brittany's pale eyebrows knitted together and she frowned, curling into herself.

Feeling guilty, I knelt on the bed next to her and nudged her shoulder. She stirred, but didn't wake up. A few seconds passed.

"Britt," I whispered. She didn't move. I pushed on her shoulder a little harder. "Brittany!" I said louder. She opened a blue eye.

"Hmph," she grunted, rubbing her cheek with a closed fist. "What time is it?" Her voice was thick from sleep. She looked around the room and yawned.

"It's almost six," I told her. She sat up, disturbing the sheets around her legs.

"Crap," she muttered. "I didn't mean to sleep for so long." She looked to the door. "Does your mom know I'm here?" She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling at the blonde locks.

"I don't think so." I watched her hands move through her hair, mesmerized. My eyelids still felt heavy, tired from the little sleep I got.

"Good. I should get going before my mom realizes I'm gone," she sighed, falling back onto her pillow. She stretched her long arms out behind her head. "I don't want to go home now."

I shifted uncomfortably. I didn't want her to leave either, but something prevented me from saying so. "When are your grandparents leaving?" I asked, changing the subject. "We need to get started on those driving lessons."

She smiled, turning her head on the pillow to look at me. Her hair splayed out in a blonde fan behind her, strands of white and dark blonde running through it. I took a deep breath. She had really nice hair. "I'm not sure. Maybe next week sometime?"

I nodded, distracted by her hair. "Sounds good." The shower stopped running, alerting me of my mom's presence just down the hallway. It was unspoken that we didn't want my mom to see that Brittany had spent the night; the information could travel back to Mrs. Pierce, who would likely be angry with Brittany for sneaking out to sleep in my bed. Brittany didn't know, but I had a hunch my mom would have a lot of questions for me if she found anyone sleeping in my bed but me.

"I should go," she reminded me, sitting up again so that our knees touched. "Before your mom leaves for work."

I agreed tiredly, getting out of bed to walk her to the front door. Knowing we had very little time before my mom came downstairs, I ushered Brittany out of bed. She put on her flip-flops and rubbed her eyes. As I reached for the doorknob, the sound of my mom's door opening reached our ears. Brittany's eyes widened, and the alarm was evident on her face.

On school days, my mom always came into my room to see if I was awake. I had a tendency to oversleep. Because I didn't need to wake up with her, not having to go to school, I had no reason to be up at sunrise. Even so, I had no idea if she would knock on my door or even open it to assure herself I was still alive. Frantic, I pushed Brittany towards the open closet doors. She looked at me with wide eyes as she stumbled into the small space, knocking down hangers. I winced at the clattering. Outside, my mother's footsteps grew closer. I crossed the room quickly and shut the closet door, trapping Brittany in the dark. I leapt into my bed and pulled the covers over me. They smelled like lavender. I burrowed into my pillow, closing my eyes.

Half a second later, the door creaked open. "Santana," my mother whispered, her face hidden in shadow. "Are you awake?"

I stayed quiet, trying to slow my breathing and my racing heart. There was silence, and I was confident she had left, but the footsteps crossed my room instead of leaving. I clenched my fists under the covers, willing her to walk out. The footsteps stopped in front of my bed, and then I could hear her grunt as she closed my window.

"Too cold in here," she muttered, before walking over to the side of my bed. I felt her fingers brush my hair to the side before the footsteps retreated out of the room and she disappeared. I breathed a sigh of relief.

_Safe._

I turned my head to be sure that my mom had left. She had even closed my door behind her. The knob on the door turned, and Brittany's face peeked out at me from the narrow strip of darkness. She looked at me expectantly. Not moving from my position on the bed, I shushed her with a finger to my lips. She got the message and the door closed.

When I was sure that my mom had pulled out of the driveway and was well on her way to work, I tossed the covers off of me and pulled open the closet door. Brittany nearly fell into me on her way out, fanning herself.

"Your closet is _hot_," she complained.

"I'll get that fixed," I joked. She smiled.

"What time is it?" She asked for the second time that morning, clearly concerned about getting home in time.

I glanced at my digital clock, which was at Brittany's back. "Almost 6:30."

"I really need to go," she said apologetically. "Thanks, uh, for having me over."

"Do you want food or anything before you go? I can make you something." I cringed. I sounded like my mom.

"No, that's alright. My whole family will be awake in half an hour, so I need to get home fast," she explained.

"Alright," I told her. "I'll walk you out."

She nodded and followed me as we trotted down the stairs. I opened the front door for her, gesturing for her to leave. "When will I see you again?" She asked me.

"Call me whenever you want to," I said, shrugging. "I'll be around."

She smiled. "I will. Thanks again, Santana," she said, startling me with a hug. She was still warm from sleep or from the closet, I didn't know which, but she felt good. I relaxed into her. I pulled back to let her go, and I watched her retreating form as she made her way down our front walk and onto the street, where she began jogging. She looked ridiculous jogging in flip-flops, with her blonde hair blowing behind her.

"See you later," she called over her shoulder.

"How soon is later?" I whispered once I was sure she was out of earshot.

* * *

_6:45 p.m._

"Santana, I brought Chinese!"

The sunlight outside of my window was dying as I heard the side door open downstairs. My mom yelled up to me from the kitchen, announcing that dinner was home. I heard the sound of plastic bags, and my stomach grumbled. I had hardly eaten all day. After Brittany left, I watched TV for two hours, too revved up to sleep. I ended up falling asleep on the couch for another two hours, and at 11 I went upstairs to read a book, but failed at focusing on anything but Brittany. I spent the entire day thinking about her, in my bed, sleeping against me, with her arm around my waist. It was strange, I told myself, to be thinking about her so much. But there was magnetism about Brittany that made it impossible not to think about her.

I wondered what she was doing for the entire day: what she was eating, who she was with, where she was in her house, and, most importantly, if she was thinking about me too. As someone that draws comfort from structure and planning, it was agony for me to not know when I'd see her next. Brittany was clearly a person that moved minute to minute. I could tell by the way she never seemed to hesitate; she was confident and bold. I acted on thought. Very, very careful thought.

But to avoid her judgment, at least for the time being, I waited for her to make the next move.

Dinner was fast. I ate lo mein out of a plastic container, making tenuous eye contact with my mom over the white rice and the sesame chicken. She ate beef and broccoli with chopsticks. Being left-handed, nobody had ever been able to teach me how to use them, so I ate my Chinese with a fork like a heathen. Eating Chinese food outside of the house was something I generally avoided. I asked her about work, and we engaged in small talk about the different kids from my school that were receiving treatment at her hospital. None of them were in ICU, which I was glad to hear, but most of the people with more serious injuries had been transported elsewhere.

I was mid-bite when my mom said, "We got a letter from the school today," and nodded towards the counter.

I put down my fork and looked to the counter, where the mail sat. I nodded slowly. "Okay." I restrained myself from standing up to open the letter.

My mom smiled a tiny smile. "You can go get it if you want, we should probably read it together."

I stood and retrieved the standard white envelope. It was stamped with Columbine's logo, a blue letter C, with a rebel printed inside of the C. I pushed aside my forgotten carton of food and opened the letter slowly. The contents were minimal, only two white sheets of paper. I put them on the table in front of me. My mom leaned forward eagerly.

I scanned it quickly, looking for words of interest. About halfway down the page, my mom interrupted. "Read it out loud," she urged. "I want to hear."

I breathed deeply, beginning. "To the parents and students of Columbine High School…"

As I read through the letter, I remained relatively emotionless, as did my mom. It outlined the tragedy without giving the gory details. After explaining a lot of what we already knew from the media, the letter contained some new information. Columbine High School students would be going to Chatfield Senior High for the last three weeks of school. Chatfield was the closest high school to Columbine, and our athletic rivals, but I doubted anyone cared about that anymore. School would be back in session May 3, and we would go until the 21st. Because of limited space, our classes would be shortened and we would only go in the afternoon, while Chatfield students would attend school in the mornings. I was okay with that, because it meant I could sleep late, and spend some time with Brittany in the mornings. If she wanted to.

Finals were to be given at the jurisdiction of our teachers. I ran through my schedule and thought about which teachers would probably give finals, and I concluded that I wouldn't have more than one or two finals to study for, which was a relief. I shook the selfish thought from my mind; it was disgusting for me to be thinking about finals and my grades when there were funerals being held for my classmates. But then again, it was disgusting for any of the teachers to give finals after such an earth-shattering tragedy.

There would be a school-held memorial for students and their parents on May 2nd, the Sunday before we went back to school. Nine days away. Nine days until I went back to school, and probably nine days until Brittany got bored of me. Nine days until she was just a cheerleader, and I was just Santana Lopez.

I sighed.

Attached to the letter was a list of each of the students that were killed and the dates of their funerals, if they were to be public funerals. Almost all of them were. Reading the list I felt unbalanced, overcome with vertigo, almost, and I placed my hands on the table to steady myself.

"Santana, are you alright? You're white as a ghost," came my mother's voice, but she was miles away.

I shook my head, and my balance came back. "I'm fine."

She eyed me skeptically. I pushed away the letter.

"Are you going to go to any of the funerals?"

"I didn't know them. I'll just go to the memorial," I told her.

"Fair enough," she shrugged, standing up to clear the table. I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn't want to go to any of the funerals. I would feel out of place and as though I wasn't doing or saying the right things. It was better if I didn't go.

I wondered if Brittany was going to any. Recalling the names, there were one or two boys that I thought might have been in the same friend group as Brittany. She hadn't mentioned anything, though. Maybe the next time I saw her she would tell me.

I missed her like hell.

* * *

_10:30 p.m._

I went up to bed after a depressing evening of watching the news with my mom. We sat mostly in silence, watching the same footage over and over again, with the occasional murmured comment from each of us. I went to bed before she did after seeing Patrick Ireland fall out of the library window for the third time. It made my stomach lurch.

As I brushed my teeth, I remembered that my mom was going into work the next day. Another day of excruciating boredom at home, and probably no Brittany. Was it selfish of me to want her to ditch her grandparents?

By 11:55 I still couldn't sleep. I couldn't stop thinking about her.

Tonight it was her lips; they wouldn't leave my thoughts. I tossed and turned under the covers, thinking about the way she licked them before she talked sometimes, and the way she pursed them when she was thinking. I thought about how they were always pink and soft-looking and completely–

A loud tap against the window distracted me from my thoughts. I looked at the clock.

11:59.

My smile nearly split my face. She was prompt.

More excited than a kid on Christmas, I leapt out of bed, landing on the floor with a catlike grace I was not aware I possessed, and tiptoed down the stairs, grinning like a maniac. I opened the front door and leaned outside. She was visible in the shadows of the house, picking a rock from the shrubbery. I watched fondly as she tossed it with incredible grace and accuracy up towards my window, where it connected with the glass with a solid crack.

"Brittany!" I whisper-yelled.

She turned with a start, and I saw her eyes shining in the dark. Her smile shined just as brightly, blindingly white against the dark night. The spring night was giving me chills; I folded my arms over my chest to warm myself. My heart raced. Breaking the rules was fun.

After bounding over bushes and stumbling onto the porch, Brittany tripped into me and wrapped her arms around my waist. She hugged me quickly, energy radiating from her in waves. She was cold, just like the night before. She pushed me into the house, shutting the door behind her. Giddy with excitement and high on Brittany's energy, I held the material of her t-shirt in my fists and smiled at her. She smiled back.

"Hi," she whispered.

"You didn't call," I whispered back, my tone reprimanding.

"I think you knew I would come back," she said seriously, but I could see her smirk, even in the dark. "In my book, later means the same day."

"I like your book," I replied with a grin, tugging her towards the stairs. "Shall we?"

She gestured dramatically at the staircase. "Lead the way."

We took the stairs in heavy silence, and it took us twice as long as it normally would've to get to my room. I closed the door as quietly as possible, turning the knob so the door didn't click. When I turned around, she was already in my bed, on her side.

_Her _side. Just the idea of it made my heart feel like a hot air balloon.

Her flip-flops were on the floor and only her face peeked out at me from over the dark bedding. I couldn't smile wide enough. Walking back to the bed, I started to get nervous. I slid into bed, keeping about a foot between us, unsure if the lack of boundaries would exist 24 hours later. She seemed to know what I was thinking, because moments later, she took the initiative, and we were in the exact same position we had been in the night before. Her arms were around me, and our legs were tangled together. Her skin was so smooth.

I couldn't speak for a few seconds, so I just watched her, blinking like an owl. She seemed wide-awake.

"I'm glad you came," I told her, sighing contentedly into her t-shirt, which had warmed significantly where it clung to her stomach and her chest. She adjusted herself so more of our legs touched. I didn't complain; it was warm. And I was feeling tingly again.

"So am I," and then, after a comfortable pause, "Emily was asking about you today."

"Really?" I asked, incredulous, yet flattered. Brittany nodded, smiling, holding me tight.

"She wanted to know when you'd come over next. I think she likes you." Her eyes glimmered in the dark.

"Hopefully soon?" I suggested, toying with the hem of Brittany's shirt.

"You're always welcome, you know," she said honestly. "Emily would love it if you took her out for ice cream."

I thought of little Emily, with her mini-Brittany smile and her lemon-colored hair. She really was a cute kid. I laughed out loud at the proposal.

"Are you just saying that to get me to buy you ice cream?"

Brittany blushed madly. "Maybe."

I shook my head fondly. The mention of Emily brought a new sort of happy to Brittany's face, and it was beautiful to watch. It was hard to believe, looking at Brittany, that she'd lost her brother and been a recent survivor of a high school shooting. She was one of those people that really, really loved their family. I couldn't identify with it, but I wasn't jealous; I just wanted to be a part of it.

"I'll buy you and your sister ice cream," I conceded, rolling my eyes. Luckily, Brittany probably couldn't tell I was blushing. "What's your favorite flavor?"

"Rainbow sherbet."

I paused for a few seconds. "Why?"

She shrugged against me, and my shoulders moved with hers. "Because it's a lot of colors and a lot of flavors, all together. That way I don't have to pick one and make the other flavors feel bad." I had begun to feel the effects of exhaustion. I could barely keep my eyes open, and I could feel myself slipping into the heavy darkness.

I waited for a hint that she was joking, but she didn't seem to be. "I like rainbow sherbet too," I told her, resting my head on the pillow. She sighed into me. Miraculously, she didn't seem to be losing energy. My eyelids drooped.

I was almost half-asleep, so I pulled the comforter tighter around us. We spent a few minutes exchanging favorites; colors, movies, music. Our taste in music was similar, but Brittany seemed to like all music. She refused to pick a favorite color. Her favorite movie, of course, was _Toy Story_, which made me smile, even though I was already sliding into sleep.

Just as I was losing all consciousness, she asked me a question. "Will you go to the memorial with me?"

Foggy from exhaustion, I didn't quite know what she was talking about. "Sure, Britt," I agreed. "Sure."

_I'd go anywhere with you._

And then I was out.

* * *

_Sunday, April 25__th__, 1999, 1:39 a.m._

"Brittany?" I whispered, checking to see if she had fallen asleep. We'd been talking for almost two hours, about nothing and everything, all at once. I'd been watching her for almost five minutes; her breathing was even, and her eyes were closed. Her arms were relaxed around my waist. She was beautiful.

"Mm?" She mumbled, opening her eyes to blink.

"Are you awake?"

"I am now," she sighed, but not one of contempt. She pulled me closer to her. She was so warm.

"I have to ask you something," I told her. I'd been thinking about it for a while, especially since the previous night. My hands trembled nervously.

She gazed at me curiously. "Ask away."

I took a breath to steady myself. I didn't know if she'd be offended, but I felt comfortable asking her.

"What was Michael like?"

She didn't seem surprised by the question, but she didn't really have much of a reaction at all. She rolled to her back, detaching herself from me, and my heart sank, fearful that I had offended her or pushed her away. But an instant later, she had pulled me back so that my arm was across her stomach and my head was on her shoulder. It was comfortable.

Her blue eyes were thoughtful. "He had dad's eyes, but mom's hair. He only had hair when he was really young though," she said with a sad smile. I listened to her pulse in her neck. It was slow. "And he loved the Rockies," she continued. "He was always wearing his Rockies hat. It's in my room now. He loved that team so much, but they were just _awful_," she said, laughing a little.

I couldn't remember seeing a Rockies hat in Brittany's room, but I knew it was probably there somewhere. "He was a pretty active kid." Her eyes had a faraway, glassy look to them. "I used to have catches with him all the time in the backyard. Later, when he had only a few months left, he was too tired to play with me. I got mad at him a lot for that, because I didn't really understand," she admitted.

My heart broke at the fact that she would be so honest with me.

"Sometimes I regret fighting with him, but that's what siblings do," she said matter-of-factly. "And there were good times that outweighed the bad, you know?"

"Do you think about him a lot?" I whispered, barely managing to make any noise.

"Every day," she said, moving her hand in circles on my back. It was a comforting gesture, and it made me sleepy. It was quiet for a while.

"I'm just glad I have memories of him," she said.

"What's your favorite memory?"

"Oh man, there's a bunch," she said, smiling. I knew she was probably going through hundreds.

I waited a few seconds, letting her think.

"Oh! I have one." I smiled. "Mike _hated _pants. Just could not stand them. So he never wore pants." Brittany shrugged, and I laughed; it seemed like a Pierce thing to do. "And my parents said, 'you can go without pants in the house, but if you leave the house, you have to wear pants.'" She shook her head fondly. "So this one time, when he was about six and I was eight, the ice cream truck drove through our neighborhood, and he wanted ice cream. And he wasn't wearing pants."

I smiled, knowing the direction the memory was taking. There was no evidence of sadness on Brittany's face, only nostalgia. The memory was obviously a good one.

"So we weren't really paying attention to him, and he just left the house and ran down the street after the ice cream truck, with no pants on. We noticed he was gone, and my parents ran outside and were yelling down the street for him to stop, but he just kept running. He didn't have any hair by that point, and watching him run down the street with no pants on with his bald little head just cracked me up when I was eight," Brittany remembered, laughing. I looked up at her from my position on her shoulder, admiring how collected she was. She seemed to have complete control over her emotions. "And the ice cream truck stopped about a block away, so Mike stopped, and he was at the little window on the truck with no pants on. My parents and I ran after him, and by the time we got there he was just standing there licking an ice cream cone. The truck was driving away by that point."

"How did he pay for the ice cream?" I asked, incredulous.

"That's the best part!" Brittany exclaimed. "My parents were like, 'how did you pay for that?' and he just said that the ice cream man gave it to him for free. He was so proud of himself." Her eyes sparkled.

"That's hysterical," I told her. "What a nice ice cream man."

Brittany laughed. "Tell me about it."

We sat in comfortable silence, with Brittany's hand finding the base of my spine and rubbing small circles there with her thumb. It was a soothing gesture, and I found myself growing sleepy.

"Thank you for telling me about him," I told her, feeling tired.

"Anytime," she sighed, resting her chin on top of my head. "You should go to sleep."

"I should," I replied.

"Good night, Santana," she said, pulling me closer to her.

"Good night, Britt."

* * *

_8:30 a.m._

I sat next to my mother in the wooden pew, listening to the priest say the homily. The church was full, and there were even people standing against the walls. It looked to me like every person in Littleton had decided to attend St. Mary's. Nearly everyone was wearing black, including me, but only by coincidence.

"As you all know," the priest began, "there was a terrible tragedy this past week. I will not relay the details to you for the benefit of our younger listeners."

Sure enough, there were a few children in the audience, sitting with their mothers and fathers. The priest ran a thick hand through his receding hair.

"In this time of great need, we all need to become closer to God. It is an opportunity for us, as Catholics, to become closer with one another, and to our Lord, and give this community the strength it needs to recover from this terrible, terrible tragedy."

A woman in the row in front of us took out a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. The man sitting next to her, most likely her husband, patted her back.

"As John says in 3:16-18, 'This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers. If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him? Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth.'"

He looked around the room, pausing to let the verse sink in.

"By this, John means that we need to _act_; thinking is not enough. We must not only pray and hope, but we must help the families of those innocent children. We must give to our schools, who teach our children; we must give to our authorities, who protect our children, and we must love our neighbors, as they love us. It is what our God has asked us to do in this time of great need."

People had begun to cry openly. My mom and I remained stoic.

"People of God, I ask you, use this time of tragedy as a time to reform ourselves and our community. Give, and you shall receive."

He stepped back from the podium. The entire assembly rose to their feet, crying and clapping for the humbled priest. The applause was thunderous. I stood with the church, applauding, though I wasn't sure why. It seemed as though his teaching should be instinct, but many needed the encouragement of God to do good for their communities. I did not feel as though the homily was applause-worthy, however. I was having a hard time finding genuine meaning in it. After the last of the applause died out, we began the Nicene Creed, chanting as one, unified as a community, a community that I felt detached from.

* * *

_Monday, April 26__th__, 1999, 6:45 a.m._

"Come on! You can run faster than that!" She yelled, running backwards about thirty feet in front of me.

I gasped as my feet pounded against the concrete of my street. "I'm so tired," I wheezed, stopping to double over. My teeth and my jaw ached from gasping for air, and the rising sun was beginning to warm the air. I was already sweating. "Can we _please _stop? I'm exhausted!"

"Santana, we've been running for five minutes!"

I pouted, crossing my arms over my heaving chest. She rolled her eyes, flipping her blonde ponytail over her shoulder. "Fine, I'll slow down. But you need to try a little harder," she said, jogging towards me. "At least five more minutes."

"Fine," I said, finally getting my breath back. I attempted to smile, but it felt more like a grimace.

"Come on, lazy," she said, beginning to run. I told you to go to sleep earlier last night."

"I wanted to wait for you," I replied, beginning to find a rhythm with my feet. We fell into step. She was barely trying; she wasn't even sweating. I, on the other hand, felt as though my leg muscles were being roasted and all of the air had been sucked out of my lungs.

"You should start leaving the door unlocked, or something," she told me. "Once we go back to school you can't wait up for me."

"Are…" I struggled to word my question properly. "Are you still going to come over? When school starts?"

School. An inevitable end to this glorious friendship, and, undoubtedly, a beginning to a series of constant reminders of the shooting. I would've sighed if I had enough air in my lungs.

She looked at me curiously, her eyes staring straight into my soul. "Why wouldn't I?"

"How will you get home? We're lucky my mom hasn't seen you yet, but if we oversleep, or you don't get home soon enough, and my mom finds us," I stopped to inhale a massive quantity of air to fill my empty, burning lungs.

"In through your nose, out through your mouth," Brittany instructed. "Your body will use the oxygen more efficiently."

"Right," I said, adjusting my breathing.

"But," she said, returning to my question, "I don't think it will be a problem. I can wake up early and sneak out."

"You'll be getting less than five hours of sleep, Britt. That's not good," I said, frowning. It wasn't that I wanted our sleepovers to end; there had been four nights so far, and no nightmares. Waking up next to her was a gift from God himself. It was wonderful.

Our feet slapped against the pavement, Brittany's footfalls more practiced and lighter than mine. I tried to copy her and managed to minimize the sound my feet made. My legs screamed.

"Five is enough," she told me. "We go to school in the afternoons, so I can go home and sleep for a little longer in the mornings. On the weekends when I get home I can sleep more. And maybe," she smiled, "just maybe, I can have you over for a real sleepover, where we don't have to sneak around."

"I'd like that."

"Me too."

* * *

_Tuesday, April 27__th__, 1999, 5:45 a.m._

It was still dark outside when I walked Brittany to the door. Her eyes were sleepy as she gave me a goodbye hug, holding on a little longer than necessary. We were both losing sleep every single night we spent together, but it were worth it. She was quickly becoming my best friend. I was happy.

"I'll see you later?" She suggested, dragging her hands over my hips as she removed her arms from around me. I shuddered from the tingles that ran through my arms and down my spine.

"Yes. I'll pick you up at two? And then after driving we'll get Emily for ice cream?"

"Sounds good to me," she said, smiling at me through the dark. She gripped the knob of the front door, but she seemed hesitant to open it.

"Hold on," she murmured, stepping away from the door. She walked towards me, getting so close that I could see a small freckle under her left eye, even with only the moonlight coming through the windows. I held my breath, but I still smelled lavender.

She extended two fingers and reached for me, touching the soft skin underneath my chin and gently pulling my face up towards hers. My pulse raced.

"Your hair," she explained, reaching for a stray piece that had fallen in my eyes. She gripped it in two of the fingers on her other hand and tucked it behind my ear. "There you go." An unfamiliar look crossed her eyes. Before I could identify it, it was gone. Just a flicker. The lavender was overwhelming.

"Be safe," I told her as she turned back to the door and opened it. She stepped into the night, into the shadows, where all I could see was a dark figure.

"I always am," she replied, before jogging down the street, her flip-flops slapping against the pavement.

* * *

_2:15 p.m._

"Seatbelt."

"Check."

"Mirrors."

She leaned out of the open window of her mom's Buick. "Check."

"Where's your brake?"

She tapped the leftmost pedal with her foot. "Right here."

"Accelerator?"

She moved her foot to the right. "Here."

"Good. Turn signal?"

She paused, searching around the steering column. "Um… here?" She asked, pointing to a switch.

"Yes. Gear selector?"

She tapped it with her palm. "Here."

"Sanity?"

"Check," she giggled.

"Do you swear on your life not to crash your mom's car?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Let's do this."

"Okay, put the car in drive, and push on the accelerator," I instructed, leaning over the center console to watch her feet on the pedals.

Brittany pushed her foot down, too hard, and the car lurched forward. "Gently! Gently!" I yelled, but she just laughed, slamming on the brake so we jolted to a stop. I groaned into my hands, predicting an onset of nausea in the near future. "Why did I agree to this?"

"Because you love me," she said, grinning at me before turning to survey the empty parking lot. She tossed her hair over her shoulder. It was still damp, probably from a recent shower, and her shampoo smelled delicious.

She hadn't seemed to think much about what she had said, but my heart had stopped. My mouth was opening and closing like a fish, struggling to respond. I was, for once, at a loss for words. I had no witty comeback.

"Santana? She was asking. She said it again. "Santana?"

I spun quickly to face her. Too quickly. She noticed.

"Are you okay?" Her eyebrows knit together in concern, and her grip tightened visibly on the steering wheel.

She had no idea what she'd said. And I had no explanation for my reaction. "Yeah, I'm fine. You're just making me nauseous," I told her, smiling weakly.

She looked at me skeptically. "What should I do now?"

"Oh, uh, do five laps of the parking lot. And then we can try parking."

She nodded and pressed on the accelerator carefully, concentrating on circling tiny parking lot.

* * *

_4:05 p.m._

Later, I waited in front of the Pierce's house in the driver's side of their car, waiting for Emily and Brittany. The driving had gone fairly well; Brittany had gotten about two hours in, so she only had 48 more until she could take her driver's license test. It was a lot of hours, but I wasn't complaining. She really hadn't made me nauseous, and the driving lesson had turned out to be fun. I didn't mind teaching her, and she learned quickly.

I was still mulling over what she had said, about me loving her. On one hand, I thought that I did. Platonically, of course. But I was hesitant to actually come to the conclusion that I did love her, especially because it had only been a week. A week since the library. I felt safe with her, and happy. However, I knew a part of that was coming from the survival thing, and the dependence that came with that.

_Why am I thinking about this so much? We're friends. That's all._

My thoughts were interrupted by Brittany and Emily exiting the Pierce house through the front door, hand in hand. They looked almost identical, even though Brittany was eleven years older. They had the same blue eyes, the same even-toothed white smile, and they both skipped a little when they walked. Brittany wore a plain blue t-shirt and jeans, and Emily had on jeans and a little pink jacket. Brittany's hair, which had been slightly wet when we went driving, had dried in long, blonde, beautiful waves. They looked adorable together. I smiled fondly at them.

Brittany opened the side door, grabbed Emily by her sides, and plunked her down in the booster seat in the back, even though the child was probably perfectly capable of getting in the car on her own. She shrieked with laughter as Brittany tickled her stomach and buckled her seatbelt for her before closing the door and getting in on the passenger's side.

"Hi, Santana!" Emily said happily.

"Hey, Emily," I said, smiling at her in the mirror.

"Ready?" Brittany asked me, her eyes bright.

"Yes!" Emily screamed from the backseat. Brittany grabbed the back of the passenger's seat and whipped around it, tickling Emily's stomach again with her long arms.

"Did I ask you?" She said, lowering her voice to a threatening rumble.

"Yes!" Emily cried, gasping for air and doubled over in laughter. I shook my head and smiled.

I put the car in drive and pulled out of Caley Place, headed to the Baskin Robbins ten minutes away. I turned the radio on, and Emily and Brittany sang to _…Baby One More Time_ and _No Scrubs _on one of the Top 40 stations. Emily barely knew any of the words, so most of her interpretations were completely wrong, but completely adorable. Brittany danced in the passenger's seat, whipping her hair, snapping her fingers, and tapping her feet against the floor. She was in a car, but every movement was graceful and on perfectly-timed. It was astounding. I wondered what she looked like dancing outside of a moving vehicle.

I looked at Emily in the rearview mirror. She was watching Brittany dance with a huge smile on her face, trying to copy her sister's moves. I joined their singing and belted out the final chorus of _No Scrubs_, tossing my head back.

"_A scrub is a guy that can't get no love from me, hanging out the passenger side of his best friend's ride, trying to holler at me!"_

Brittany had opened the window and was bouncing on her arm on the side of the car, moving to the beat. When the song ended and the station went to commercial, she closed the window and turned to look at me. Her eyes were wide.

I looked at her briefly, but turned to look at the road. "Wow," she breathed. "You're a _really _good singer."

"Um, thanks," I said, blushing madly. I was glad to have the excuse to look at the road; I was beat red.

"No, seriously. Are you in choir or anything?"

I coughed, nearly choking. "I sing in church sometimes. But no, I don't really do school activities," I said lamely. Emily was quiet in the backseat.

"You should," she said. "Join the choir next year. You'd totally love it."

"Are you in choir?" I asked her, locking eyes before turning back to the road.

"Nope," she said bluntly.

"Then how do you–"

"Just join the choir, you're a good singer," she said finally. We were still a few minutes from Baskin Robbins, but I really wanted to get out of the car. I was uncomfortable under her awestruck gaze.

I shrugged. "I'll think about it."

When the guitars of the next song came on the radio, my heart sank. It was a song that I loved, one that I knew all of the words to, and one that I couldn't help but sing, but I didn't want Brittany's attention on me. Though I knew Brittany was watching me, I had to sing when the song reached the chorus.

"_Oh, kiss me, beneath the milky twilight, lead me out on the moonlit floor, lift your open hand, strike up the band and make the fireflies dance, silver moon's sparkling, so kiss me."_ My voice did sound good. It was strong and powerful, and reflected years of practice, even though most of it came from singing in the shower, the car, and church.

I could feel Brittany's eyes on me. I chanced a glance at her, and her eyes flickered up to mine. Up from… my lips. My heartbeat skyrocketed, and suddenly I felt very, very warm. A rosy tint spread across her cheeks and she averted her eyes from mine, obviously embarrassed. The tips of her ears pinked as she turned back to look out of the passenger's side window.

"Wow," Emily complimented from the backseat.

_Yeah,_ I thought. _Wow._

* * *

In Baskin Robbins, it took Emily and I forever to pick an ice cream flavor. Brittany had already ordered her rainbow sherbet and was eating it by the time I ordered my cookie dough cone. Emily got the same. We sat in a table in the corner of the store where the April sun shone through, warming our backs. We talked about going back to school in a few days. Emily was excited to go back; she was bored at home.

However, at the mention of school, Brittany grew quiet. She pushed around her ice cream with her spoon, making all of the colors run together.

"Britt?" I prodded, poking her foot under the table with mine.

Her head snapped up. Her eyes were sad. "Yeah?"

"Do you not want to go back to school?"

She shrugged. "Not really. I don't like school very much."

Emily ate her ice cream quietly and watched us. Aware of the younger girl's presence, I decided not to ask Brittany any more questions about school. I made a mental note to ask her about it later.

* * *

_6:00 p.m._

"Hey mom, it's me," I spoke into Brittany's cell phone. I was sitting on the couch in her basement, and she sat next to me with one leg bent so that her chin could rest on her knee. It looked like a very awkward position. I gave Brittany a look, and she smiled at me and shrugged, flipping through channels on the television. I rolled my eyes affectionately.

"Hola, Santanita," she replied. I could hear the sounds of the car radio in the background; she was on her way home from work.

I decided to skip the customary greetings. Neither of us cared enough to ask how the other was. "Can I stay for dinner at Brittany's tonight?"

She sighed, exasperated. Of course my plans inconvenienced her. "I guess that's alright. Is it okay with her parents? I don't want you over there uninvited, you know."

I rolled my eyes. Brittany, who was listening to the conversation, giggled, though I wasn't sure what she found so funny. "They're ordering pizza. They said it's fine if I stay."

"Santana!" Brittany suddenly exclaimed, dropping the remote to the floor with a thump. She adjusted to a sitting position. Startled, I covered the receiver.

"What, Britt?" I hissed.

"Ask her if you can sleep over!"

I froze. "What? Are you sure?"

"Yeah, totally. My parents don't care."

"Have you asked them?"

She paused. "No." I opened my mouth to argue, but she interrupted me. "But if they say no, you can just call your mom back and say you changed your mind. See? It's a flawless plan." She flipped her hair over her shoulder haughtily.

"Jesus, fine." Brittany laughed.

I uncovered the receiver. "Santana? Santana, are you there?"

"Yeah, mom. Brittany's parents invited me to sleep over, is that okay?"

She was quiet for a few seconds, and all I heard was indistinguishable mumblings from the radio. "Do they have a toothbrush for you? And pajamas?"

I looked over at Brittany. She nodded, beaming.

"Yes."

I was very much looking forward to borrowing more of Brittany's clothes.

She sighed. "Well, I guess that's fine. But I have work tomorrow, so you'll need to get a ride home."

"That's fine. Bye, mom, have a good night."

"Adiòs." She hung up.

Brittany rocked backwards in her sitting position and onto her feet, nearly knocking me off of the couch as I ended the phone call. She bent her legs and sprang up, jumping on the couch cushions. She got very little air from the leather cushions, but she still managed to almost touch the ceiling with her long arms. I pressed myself against the opposite end of the couch, not wanting to be crushed by a jumping Brittany.

"You're sleeping over!" She sang. "And eating pizza!"

"You're ridiculous," I told her.

"Jump with me," she said, extending her arms. "No one is watching."

I looked around the basement to confirm. She was right, of course. I grabbed her hands, enjoying the brief contact. She released me as I got my footing, jumping with her.

I don't know if it was the excitement of the evening to come, or Brittany's infectious energy, or my lack of sleep the previous night, but soon after standing up I was in complete hysterics. I was laughing harder than Brittany, who was mostly laughing at me. I could barely breathe. My cheeks hurt. I bounced from foot to foot, clapping my hands. I was sleeping at Brittany's. And eating pizza.

Brittany's cheeks were red from laughing, and she grabbed her sides. "Higher!" She said gleefully, reaching out to grab my hands. I laughed, so happy that she was holding my hands. She seemed to smile wider.

"Can you touch the ceiling?" she asked me, swinging her arms to propel her body towards the tiles above us. The tips of her fingers brushed against it.

"I'm not sure," I laughed, copying her arm motions to touch the ceiling. After a few tries, I launched myself towards it. My fingers graced the coarse material, but in order to do so, I had jumped forward. Before I could correct my course, I had fallen on top of Brittany, laughing harder than ever.

We slid into the couch cushions, Brittany's legs tangled awkwardly in mine. It was the first time we had touched so intimately in the daylight. Our faces were inches from each other. We had stopped laughing and were merely gasping, our chests rising and falling. With each breath Brittany took, my body rose a few inches. She looked beautiful beneath me. She panted, and each time she did, the pink of her lips became visible. I couldn't help but stare.

And then she began to close the distance, or maybe it was just my imagination.

"Brittany! Santana! Pizza!" Mrs. Pierce's voice interrupted us, and Brittany's lips were just as far as they had been before. I was almost certain I had overestimated the closeness of our lips. I leapt off of Brittany, stumbling backwards against the coffee table. She stood up slowly, eyeing me skeptically. I looked from left to right, anywhere to avoid eye contact with her.

"Woah," she said. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I replied, shaking my head. "I'm fine."

My racing pulse told me otherwise. Why had I imagined that?

* * *

"What if you ate like that on a date?" I asked Brittany as she took a massive bite of a slice of pizza.

"Whoever I was on a date with would ask to marry me on the spot," she said, her mouth full of cheese. She winked at me.

I blushed and shook my head. "You're disgusting," I told her, daintily placing my slice of half-eaten pizza on the paper plate in my lap. We sat on opposite ends of the coffee table in Brittany's basement, alone. The rest of the Pierce family was watching a movie upstairs, but we had been dismissed from the affair. I was glad.

She grinned open-mouthed at me, showing me her most recent bite of pizza, and I just laughed, picking up my slice.

"So what do you want to do tonight?" she asked, wiggling her pale eyebrows.

"Beat your ass in ping-pong," I said, pointing a greasy finger to the table in the center of the room.

"You're on," she grinned.

* * *

"You're cheating!" I protested. "That is _not _how you serve!"

She shrugged, giggling. "My house, my rules." She tossed the ball high up in the air and swung her arm forcefully around her body, acing me again with a completely illegal serve. "11-2, and Pierce takes the lead, which she's had for the entire game," Brittany said in her faux-announcer voice, which was about an octave lower than her normal voice. "And the crowd goes wild!" She rolled up the sleeves of her t-shirt, flexing for the "crowd," which consisted of the couch, the TV, and the pinball machine. She danced in a circle.

"Cheater," I mumbled.

"What's that, Santana? Is someone a sore loser?"

"I said you're a _cheater_!" I ran around the ping-pong table and tackled her to the carpet, pushing her shoulders against the floor so I was straddling her hips. She got a devious glint to her eyes, and I froze.

Before I could utter an expletive, she had reversed our positions so she was on top, her long legs on either side of me. She pinned my wrists to the carpet. The tingles were impossible to ignore; they were everywhere. I was burning under Brittany's touch, and the added warmth of her body heat on my midsection only added to it. I pushed feebly against her strong hands, attempting to put up a fight, but not wanting to end our wrestling match. She released my wrists.

"I win," she said smugly. "At everything." She crossed her arms proudly against her chest.

My chest rose and fell, and for a few seconds, I couldn't do anything but stare at her. I knew I probably looked like an idiot, but Brittany was like a sculpture; she had this life to her eyes that was warm and inviting, and a color to her cheeks that made her skin glow. Her lips matched the pinkish tint, curving gracefully across her face and parting just a little to show her perfectly white teeth. Her arms, legs, and hands, and fuck, even her hair, they all knew where to be to look just right. She didn't even have to try; she always looked perfect and beautiful, even when she wasn't supposed to look perfect and beautiful. She woke up in the mornings looking like a goddess, whether we got two hours of sleep or seven.

It really was incredible.

But she was giving me a funny smile.

"What?" I said defensively.

"Nothing," she said. The glint in her eyes told me otherwise. "Let's watch a movie."

Happy with that, I let her pull me up from the carpet. Our ping-pong paddles lay forgotten on the floor.

"Do you want to get changed first?" She asked me, pointing up with her index finger, presumably at her room.

"Yeah, sure," I answered, following her up the two flights of stairs. She did that thing again, where she grabbed the banister at the bottom of the stairs, the spot with the stain worn off. It was just another thing about Brittany that was so… her, for a lack of a better word.

We entered her room, and she immediately took off her t-shirt, flinging it onto her bed. I stood awkwardly and tried to look at anywhere but her. She shed her bra next, and a few seconds later she had changed into a larger t-shirt and her jeans were around her ankles.

"How're these?" she asked, holding up a t-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts. I recognized the Radiohead t-shirt as one that she'd worn to my house a few nights ago. It was light blue.

"Perfect," I said, taking the pajamas and averting my eyes from her exposed legs. I turned around to hide my blush.

With my back turned to her, I pulled off my own shirt and discarded it next to Brittany's bed, reminding myself to pick it up before I left the next day. The Radiohead shirt was way too big on me.

"Britt, whose shirt is this?" I asked her.

"An ex-boyfriend's," she replied simply. "I think I just forgot to give it back. Why?"

I stared at the shirt, suddenly feeling weird for wearing it. Had Brittany had sex with some guy and took his shirt? Was it someone I knew?

"Don't worry about it," she told me, shrugging. "It was a few years ago, he probably forgot about it."

"Right." I felt the beginning of a headache developing.

"So what movie do you want to watch?"

* * *

Ten minutes later, after we had both brushed our teeth and said our goodnights to the rest of the Pierce family, we were sitting on Brittany's leather couch under her yellow afghan. She had insisted on bringing down at least five pillows and the quilt from her bed, which took us two trips up to her room.

"Have you seen _Halloween_?" She asked me, shuffling through a pile of videotapes.

"No." I paused, waiting to see if she would say anything else. "Brittany, it's like, May. I don't even know what it's about."

"Hey, that makes two of us!" She enthused. I rolled my eyes. "Come on, it'll be good. It's old."

She looked at me and made her eyes big and round and began to pout. I ignored her. "If you don't even know what it's about, how can it be good?"

"I have a sixth sense," she said seriously. "For good movies."

"You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

_There it is again._ She kept saying that. Love. It was scary. I bet she said that to the Radiohead boyfriend.

* * *

"Holy fuck!" I screamed, burying my head in Brittany's armpit, which had mysteriously migrated from a few feet away to right next to my head. She also had her arm around me, which was new. I didn't notice her move it.

On the TV screen, a little boy was already stabbing people.

"Fuck!" I screamed again, the sound muffled by Brittany's arm. Brittany laughed, but didn't remove her arm from around me. It felt good, and I was surrounded by lavender, which was quickly becoming my favorite smell.

He stabbed his sister in the hallway with a butcher's knife as she struggled to get away from him.

"Brittany!" I shrieked. "Turn it off!"

She laughed. "Suck it up, you baby." Then she was quiet for a few seconds. "Wait, are you serious? Because I can turn it off."

In response, I laughed. "No," I said in a small voice. "I'll be alright."

Even though I couldn't see her face, I could feel her smile. "Good."

* * *

"We are never watching a horror movie ever again," I told her. "Why didn't you tell me it was a horror movie?"

"Come on, Santana. _Halloween_? Of course it's scary! You're supposed to be smart," she told me, grinning. She had removed her arm from around me and we were sitting cross-legged on the couch facing each other.

I frowned. "Why do you think I'm smart? I'm not that smart."

"Yes you are," she insisted, mirroring my frown. It didn't look right on her pretty face. "One," she started, holding up a single finger. "You're not in any of my classes, and you never have been. You must be in advanced, like, everything." I shrugged. "I'm right, aren't I?" She asked, smiling.

"Well, not gym, because–"

"Oh, shut up. You're in advanced everything."

"Sort of."

She rolled her eyes. "Two, you always sound really smart when you talk." I shrugged again. "And three, you were in the library when I met you. That pretty much sums it up."

"Did I look like a regular library-visiter?" I teased.

"Yes. You were totally rocking the library look."

"What in the world is a library look?" I asked, feigning offense.

"You know, like this," she said, demonstrating the "library look." She curled up into a sitting version of the fetal position and held an imaginary book in one of her hands, pushing an invisible pair of glasses up the bridge of her nose. She crossed her eyes and said, in the most ridiculously nasal voice, "Hm, let's see, the capital of Ohio is–"

"Brittany!" I screeched, snorting with laughter. She smiled so wide, and I was perfectly satisfied that she was making fun of me. My stomach muscles hurt from laughing so much. "No, but really," I said, wiping my eyes. "What'd you think of me?"

She paused, taking her time to think about it. "Well I knew you were smart by the way you talked to me. But the first thing I thought?"

I waited patiently.

"I thought you were really beautiful," she said. "Just totally gorgeous, with the hair and the skin and the," she paused, losing her train of thought. Or not wanting to disclose where the train had gone. "Yeah." She blushed.

My heart nearly jumped out of my chest. "Wait, seriously?" I asked her.

"Um, yeah," she said. "Why is that so hard to believe? I'm sure guys tell you that all the time."

I took a deep breath, knowing I was treading into unfamiliar waters with Brittany. We had never talked about boys before, but I knew she wouldn't push me if I didn't want to talk about boys. "Not really."

She looked surprised. "What?"

"No boys," I told her. "None that I like."

"Have you ever had a boyfriend?" She asked me, raising an eyebrow. She didn't ask the question in a mean, incredulous way; she was only curious. And surprised, apparently.

"No," I said, unable to make eye contact with her.

She noticed. "Look at me." She placed two fingers below my jaw, guiding my head so I could look at her. I obeyed, meeting her blue eyes.

"It's okay to have not had a boyfriend, Santana," she told me with a smile, wrapping a few of her fingers around the curve of my jaw. Tingles ran down the back of my neck.

"But you've probably had a ton of boyfriends," I said sadly. She didn't remove her hand from my jaw.

"Yeah, but they don't matter."

"Why do you date so many people if it doesn't matter?"

"It's a status thing," she sighed. "I sound so shallow, don't I?"

I shrugged.

"Being a cheerleader, you're sort of expected to date a lot of guys."

I paused, content with listening to her talk about her popularity. The concept of the high school hierarchy fascinated me.

"Actually, I haven't had a boyfriend since October. And even that didn't last very long, only a month or so."

A month seemed like a long time to me. I let her keep talking, because I knew that she would tell me more if I didn't interrupt her. She liked to fill the silence.

"I don't get the whole boyfriend thing, you know?" she told me, dropping her hand from my jaw to prop her head up on her fists. I merely shrugged in response. I didn't know how I felt about 'the whole boyfriend thing.' "It's just stupid, I think," she continued. "You have to hold hands with this big, careless jock, and the only thing you get out of it is free dinner. Sometimes. And mediocre sex."

I paled, and my stomach flipped, but not in a pleasant way.

"You haven't had sex, right?"

"No," I finally spoke. I rarely thought about sex, unless I was in health class. It seemed like something I could avoid until marriage. Most people I knew talked about abstaining, but I didn't need to abstain. Nobody wanted to have sex with me and I didn't want to have sex with anyone.

"Don't. It's not worth it." She waited a little, pushing her hair behind her ear. Having this conversation was new with us; the cheerleader in Brittany was a side of her I hadn't really seen. "Wait, I don't mean like _never_, that'd be weird," she corrected, obviously still thinking about sex. "Just make sure it's with the right person, okay?" She stared hard into my eyes, and my gaze flitted from her lips to her hair to her cheeks and finally stopped at blue. She cared about me.

"Okay," I told her.

* * *

We didn't talk about sex for the rest of the night, but I found out that Brittany had dated the weird hockey player with the long hair, a guy named Sam, who had gone to Chatfield, but moved to Tennessee, Noah Puckerman, a football player, and even a guy in a wheelchair, Artie, who was the most recent boyfriend. She seemed to remember new names every few minutes, which made me a little more sick to my stomach.

She asked me if I liked anyone.

I told her that I didn't.

But if I really thought about it, I did like someone. But not in the way Brittany had liked her boyfriends. The way Brittany described boys made me hate them. I hated them for being bad boyfriends, and I hated them for having big, careless hands.

"Who do you mostly hang out with?" I asked her, hoping to get away from the subject of boys.

"Cheerleaders," she said, shrugging. She paused to think. "Do you know Quinn Fabray?"

Oh boy, did I know Quinn Fabray. Queen Quinn. She was the head bitch of everything. Of course I knew her.

"Yeah, I know the name," I lied. If someone asked me to, I could probably paint a detailed portrait of Quinn Fabray. I had studied her mannerisms and her features obsessively through junior high, hoping to be just like her. It hadn't really worked.

"She's my best friend on the squad," Brittany said. It had gotten dark, and we were sharing the yellow afghan, but we had moved to the floor to lie on top of one of the sleeping bags we had brought down. We were sharing a pillow, talking with our heads right next to each other. I flinched a little when she called Quinn her best friend. If Quinn and Brittany were best friends, that said a lot about Brittany. It meant she was easily manipulated, and that she kissed the ground Quinn walked on. It meant she was just as shallow as the rest of them. I had never really noticed Brittany before, even though it sounded like she spent a lot of time around the head cheerleader. I thought that I would've noticed Brittany, as she was just as beautiful as Quinn. Maybe even more beautiful. "She was my best friend all through elementary and middle school. We've hung out just the two of us a couple of times recently, but more back when I was dating Puck. He's her boyfriend's best friend. Usually I just hang out with a bunch of them at parties and stuff. Quinn and I aren't all that close anymore."

I nodded, piecing together the information. I was selfishly glad to hear that there was some distance between Brittany and Quinn.

"Have you talked to her since last week?" I asked, curious to know why Brittany had so much time to spend with me.

"She called me on Friday to say she was flying to her mom's," she told me. "Her parents are divorced, and her mom lives in Oregon. Or Ohio. Something like that."

"Alright," I responded. I hesitated before asking my next question. "Do you think you would've hung out with her had she stayed here?"

Brittany shrugged. "Maybe, I don't know. Sometimes Quinn isn't very much fun to be around. She's not very nice to people."

_I noticed._

"And Finn smells."

I laughed out loud. "Wait, wasn't Finn the guy that showed us out of the library?"

"Yeah, that was him." She paused, seeming to want to avoid talking about anything that happened on that Tuesday. "He smells like dip and burgers. And she drags him everywhere. He's like a puppy." She rolled her eyes. I got the sense that Brittany felt like Finn had replaced her as Quinn's sidekick, so she was attacking him. I didn't have a problem with it. It was amusing to listen to.

We stayed silent for a few minutes after Brittany's rant about Finn, just laying in the dark. Brittany stared at the ceiling, and I stared at her. It was easy to look at her and not get bored; I could find something new every time I watched her. Right now I studied the way her throat moved when she breathed; the pale skin stretched, and her lips parted just slightly. She seemed to be too deep in thought to notice me watching her.

"Are you still scared?" I asked her.

"Every day."

"Me too," I agreed.

"What do you think about going back?"

She shrugged again, acting indifferent, as she had earlier when we got ice cream. I frowned. "Not much. It's just school."

"Are you scared to be back at school?"

"Not really," she said.

"Then what's wrong? I can tell there's something about it that's bothering you." I sighed and turned onto my side to face her. She was clearly unhappy. She looked up at the ceiling, thinking about it.

"I'm just tired of it, you know? I'm tired of getting mediocre grades and being told how important college is and going to cheer practice seven days a week and seeing Quinn every day with her stupid boyfriend. I'm supposed to be her best friend."

She stopped abruptly, realizing she could've offended me by saying that. I didn't tell Brittany, but a little piece of my heart broke off when she said that Quinn was her best friend. It meant that I was just a side project, someone to occupy her until Quinn got bored with Finn and wanted Brittany around again. Brittany watched me with her pale eyes, trying to gauge my reaction. I took a deep breath and told myself that I was being irrational. Being Brittany's best friend would take time, and Quinn had clearly already put her time in. I would have to prove to Brittany that I was better than Quinn, and until then, never, ever admit that Brittany was already my best friend.

I could do that.

"I understand," I told her slowly. I was struggling to help her; our problems weren't similar at all, so I had nothing but sympathy to show her. I asked questions to stall. "So you think that going back to school will make all of that worse?"

"No, I mean, I think it'll be the same. Just having this time off," she looked at me, "and spending it with you, I've been thinking that school will change everything. Everything will go back to normal. But I don't want to go back to normal."

I did know how she felt. She wasn't the only one anticipating the inevitable changes that school would bring to our friendship, the major one being that Brittany and I, according to the hierarchical laws of high school, could not be seen together, under any circumstances. It would make me look like I was trying to fit in with the popular crowd, and it would hurt Brittany's status. It was a depressing thought.

"I've been thinking about that, too," I told her. "We're not exactly in the same social groups at school."

Brittany nodded, still looking at the ceiling. She seemed hesitant to make eye contact with me, though I couldn't figure out why. "Exactly."

We laid there in the silence, each one of us trying to think of what to say. I didn't know how to say what I wanted to without sounding pathetic and desperate. After a while, I was pretty sure Brittany had fallen asleep. I moved a little closer to her, hoping that her warmth would help me fall asleep.

"Don't worry," I whispered. "We can stay friends." I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against her cheek, feeling myself slipping into heavier darkness.

"I know," she whispered back. "It's only three weeks.

I fell asleep content.

* * *

I woke up to Brittany poking me in the cheek, her blunt nails scraping against my skin.

"Santana," she whispered harshly. I cracked an eye open. I was breathing hard, and sweating.

"What?" I croaked. The basement was still dark, and I could barely see Brittany.

"You were talking in your sleep," she said, dropping her hand to the sleeping bag. "It was freaking me out."

I was still groggy from sleep, so I rubbed my eyes, trying to understand what Brittany was saying. "What?" I said stupidly.

"You were talking in your sleep," Brittany explained for the second time.

I looked around the dark basement, taking in my surroundings. I cleared my throat, hoping I didn't sound like a frog. "What was I saying?"

"Well, you were sort of screaming," she said. "I was worried it was going to wake up the whole house. You were alternating between 'no' and 'don't touch me.'"

I frowned. I had never been one to talk in my sleep, much less scream. Plus, I couldn't remember what I had been dreaming about.

Brittany watched my face carefully. "Did you have a nightmare?"

"I…" I trailed off. "I can't remember."

She still seemed worried. She had moved into a sitting position before she woke me up, creating a considerable height difference between us. Her hair hung in her face, long and shiny, but looking more gray than blonde in the darkness of the basement. Her eyebrows knitted together, and a tiny frown formed on her face. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," I said, confused. "I just can't remember."

"You were screaming," she said, as though she couldn't understand why I couldn't remember, and telling me again would help.

"I know," I said. She sighed in response.

"Do you think you'll do it again?"

"I have no idea," I said honestly. "I'm sort of glad I can't remember it."

She still seemed off-put by my lack of memory, but she seemed to accept it, albeit begrudgingly.

"What time is it?" I asked her. I could feel my eyes closing again. I was really tired.

"It's 3:30. You can go back to sleep," she told me. She didn't move from her sitting position.

"Okay," I said slowly, falling asleep. "Good night again."

"Good night," she replied.

I tried to close my eyes, but sleep didn't come right away. Brittany still hadn't moved from her sitting position. After a few minutes of laying on the blankets with my eyes closed, I still hadn't heard or felt Brittany move to lay down.

"Brittany," I whispered. She jumped, startled.

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you to fall asleep," she explained.

I paused, trying to fathom why she would be waiting. I could come up with no logical explanation. "Why?" I asked.

"To make sure you're okay."

My brain still wasn't making any connections. "I'm fine, really." I waited, watching her. She had dark circles under her eyes that I couldn't remember seeing before. "Have you slept at all tonight?"

She hesitated, and I knew she was debating lying to me. "No," she finally said. And it was the truth.

That woke me up, and I sat up immediately, untangling myself from the yellow afghan. "Brittany, why won't you sleep?"

"If I fall asleep, then nobody is protecting us," she explained, averting her eyes. She knew as soon as she said it that it was unreasonable.

"Britt," I breathed. "You don't need to do that. What do you mean?"

She looked at me again, and her eyes had filled with tears. The small amount of light in the room made the tears shine. "But I have to," she whimpered. She looked so small. "Somebody has to."

Having no idea what to say, I leaned forward quickly and wrapped my arms around her shoulders, pulling her into me. She cried into my shoulder, her chest heaving as the crying became sobbing.

"Shh," I whispered into her hair, over and over again for at least a minute or two. I didn't mind holding her like this. I rubbed her back and pushed her hair out of her face, stroking the individual strands. She pulled away from me, but I slid my hands down to her forearms to keep her close. The sobs had stopped, and the only evidence that they had been there were tear tracks on her cheeks and her occasional sniffles. I waited for her to talk.

"I don't mean to fall asleep at your house," she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "I usually stay awake while you sleep."

"I don't understand," I said gently, holding her hands. She looked so different now than she had in the past week. She was weaker, broken. She needed me, and she couldn't be the strongest one anymore. I knew I shouldn't have believed her so easily when she said she was fine just hours after the shooting.

"I'm still scared," she admitted, choking on the last word, "that something will happen again. That they'll come back and I won't be able to protect anyone." She hiccuped.

I chewed on my lower lip while I thought of an appropriate response. "That's not your job, Britt."

She breathed loudly, blowing a few loose strands of hair from her face. "I know. But I can't help thinking about what could've happened to us. It feels real, and close. Everyone could die."

"So why aren't you sleeping?" I asked, trying to understand.

"Because when I close my eyes, I see horrible, horrible things. If they're open, I can make sure that no one gets hurt."

Brittany had been coming to my house to be my watchdog. That was why she was so distraught when I woke her up that first morning; she was mad at herself because she hadn't been protecting me, not because she was worried about getting home late.

"Brittany, I–"

"It's stupid, I know," she interrupted.

"It's not stupid," I insisted, pushing on her forearms and leaning forward to get my point across. She hiccuped again, and then took a deep breath. "It's really, really…" I paused, searching for the right word, "wonderful," I continued, settling for less than eloquent. I stared into her eyes. "You are amazing for wanting to protect the people you love. But you can't hurt yourself to help other people. You need to protect yourself, too."

She nodded. Her eyelids looked heavy; they were almost half-closed.

"If you're scared of what you see when you close your eyes, I'll be here to protect you. We can protect each other," I told her, baring myself to Brittany, even though I had known for just a week. It was easier than I thought it'd be to open up.

She had seemed to understand what I told her, and before I knew it, she had collapsed into my arms again. We hugged for a long time. I rested my chin on the top of her head and wrapped my arms securely around her middle, hoping to make her feel comfortable and safe. She relaxed. Her muscles didn't feel so tight under my fingertips, and her breathing returned to normal.

"Are you tired?" I asked her. Her head was still on my shoulder.

"Exhausted," she said sluggishly, burrowing into my neck. Her nose brushed over a pulse point, and the tingles came back full force. I shook them off.

"Do you want to go to sleep now?"

"Yes."

She detached herself from me and laid back down on the blankets. I took the thickest one and pulled it over her, making her smile. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, and for a second, she looked exactly like her little sister. Just a child.

I nestled into my side of the makeshift bed, pulling the yellow afghan over me. It had become my favorite blanket; it smelled just like Brittany. I laid so I was facing away from her; I needed her to fall asleep. I felt Brittany shuffle around, rustling the blankets under us, and then I felt her warm breath on my neck as she slipped one of her arms around my waist. Her front was flush with my back, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose at her touch. And then the tingles were back again. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, for what purpose, I don't know, and waited for her to get comfortable. She sighed contentedly into my neck, and I felt like I had been struck by lightening; all of the hairs on my body stood up, and a current of energy shot straight down my body and made my toes curl. I bit my lower lip.

Once she seemed comfortable, I relaxed into her, enjoying the warmth of her body. She had scooted under the afghan with me, forcing both of us to stay as close as possible to stay warm. I was okay with that.

After just a few minutes, her arm around my waist went limp and her forehead slumped against my back. Her breathing was slow and even. Satisfied that she had fallen asleep, I placed my right arm carefully over hers, trying desperately not to wake her up, and I gently intertwined our fingers where they rested under the blanket. She stirred slightly, and her fingers tightened where they were interlocked with mine, but she didn't wake up.

I supposed I should've known that Brittany couldn't be so strong, but I really did admit to myself that I couldn't have known it wasn't possible; I simply didn't know her well enough. Her breakdown had proved to me that she wasn't perfect, but she was a protector, and she wanted to put up that facade of being put-together.

She protected the people she loved and cared about most. And she had come to my house for four nights in a row to watch me sleep and make sure I was okay.

And if Brittany did that for the people she loved, then that meant that she… that she loved me.

Thinking about it was making my head hurt, so I squeezed my eyes shut again and focused on the Brittany's rhythmic breaths against my neck.

Minutes later I joined her in sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Oh man, these reviews are amazing. I love the time and consideration put into each and every one of them, and I'm so glad to see that I'm actually giving some people emotions. You guys are the best. These reviews definitely help me write faster, which is why I've finished this chapter less than a week after the last one. So, here you go. Chapter 6.

* * *

_Wednesday, April 28__th__, 1999, 9:15 a.m._

I woke up in the same position I had fallen asleep in: pressed against Brittany. She was still asleep, breathing steadily, her chest pressing into me every time she inhaled. I blinked the sleep out of my eyes, adjusting to the gray morning light. I could see out of the far basement window that it was raining. I untangled myself from Brittany and stood, looking for a bathroom. My back was stiff from sleeping on the floor, so I lifted my arms high above my head and twisted, loosening the muscles in my shoulders.

My socked feet padded against the carpet as I opened all of the doors in the basement, finding mostly storage closets filled with old toys and boxes. Brittany and I had used the upstairs bathroom to get ready, so I didn't know if she had a basement bathroom. I looked back at her, hoping to find her awake so she could tell me where it was, but she was still sound asleep. Her mouth was opened slightly, and her hair was a mess of blonde on the pillow.

Resolving that I had to find the bathroom on my own, I wandered around the basement, continuing to open doors. I even went inside of the closets, thinking that they might lead to a bathroom, but there was definitely not a bathroom in Brittany's basement. I sighed, knowing I needed to go upstairs. I hoped that Brittany's family wasn't awake yet, and I could find the bathroom in peace, but based on what Brittany had told me, her parents and her sister were probably already awake. I tiptoed up the carpeted stairs, taking one last look at Brittany by the couch. She was still asleep.

On the main floor, I could hear Mrs. Pierce talking to Emily and the sound of pots and pans being moved around the kitchen. I could smell pancakes. My stomach rumbled. I realized that I had no idea where Brittany's first floor bathroom was either, and that I would have to ask someone. I walked quietly into the kitchen, where Mrs. Pierce was at the stove, with her back to me, and Emily was sitting at the counter, facing her mother. I stood there for a few seconds, listening to the sound of pancakes sizzling.

I cleared my throat.

Mrs. Pierce and Emily both turned around at the same time, smiling when they saw me in the doorway. Mrs. Pierce put down the pan she was holding.

"Good morning, Santana," she greeted, putting the pan in her hand back on the stove. Emily smiled at me, her mouth full of what I assumed was pancake.

"Good morning," I croaked, my voice cracking. I cringed.

"How was your night?" Mrs. Pierce asked, flipping a pancake. "Did you sleep okay downstairs?"

I nodded. "Yes, very well. Thank you for having me."

"Oh, it's no problem," she said, waving a hand at me and continuing to flip her pancakes. "Where's Brittany?"

I looked back at the door to the basement, checking to see if Brittany had come upstairs.

"She's still asleep, I think," I said, gesturing at the basement door with my thumb. "I was actually, uh, looking for the bathroom." I blushed.

"Oh, of course!" Mrs. Pierce exclaimed, and my cheeks got even redder. I prayed she didn't notice. "It's right around that corner," she told me, pointing with her spatula.

"Thanks," I replied, walking towards the bathroom. It was painted light blue, and smelled strongly of lavender soap. No surprise there.

I used the bathroom and stood at the sink, splashing cold water on my face. I looked tired, but healthy. Somehow I seemed older, but I couldn't tell if I was imagining it. I ran my hand through my hair in place of a brush and dried my face with one of the Pierce's hand towels. As I dried my face, I debated going back downstairs and laying down with Brittany again. It was either that or stay upstairs with Emily and Mrs. Pierce. I itched at the collar of the Radiohead t-shirt. It was bothering me.

When I left the bathroom, I could hear Brittany's voice, and I knew that she had come upstairs, making my decision for me. I entered the kitchen, and Brittany had joined her sister at the island and was talking to her mom about something, waving her hands excitedly. Mrs. Pierce saw me walk in and smiled at me. Brittany turned around.

"Hey," she said, smiling. "You weren't in the basement when I woke up, I thought you had been abducted."

I smiled, but I knew it was a genuine concern of Brittany's. I noted not to leave her to wake up alone. "Nope, just in the bathroom," I told her, joining her at the counter. She immediately poked me with her foot.

"Who wants pancakes?" Mrs. Pierce asked, placing a heaping plate of them on the counter. "I have chocolate chip, blueberry, and plain." I took a plate from a stack next to the pancakes and piled three blueberry pancakes onto it before placing it in front of me. Brittany took chocolate chip and began drowning them in syrup before passing me the bottle.

"Santana, can I get you a drink?" Mrs. Pierce asked.

"I'll have orange juice," Brittany said, already nearly finished with her first pancake.

Mrs. Pierce gave her a disapproving look. "I'll have the same," I said, smiling at Brittany. Mrs. Pierce shook her head.

The pancakes were delicious. They were better than Louis' pancakes, which was saying something. They were fluffy and not too sweet. I ate six of them, and Brittany was impressed. Emily just laughed at me. I hadn't realized how hungry I was.

"Are you going to the memorial, honey?" Mrs. Pierce asked me, eating a pancake of her own.

I swallowed the final bite of my last pancake. "Yes, I am," I responded, licking my lips. "Do you know if it's for families or just students?" I asked, looking from her to Brittany for an answer.

Mrs. Pierce shrugged, but Brittany interrupted. "Everybody, I think," she said through a mouthful of pancake. "It's going to be weird, seeing everyone again." Her mom nodded, her mouth set in a hard, straight line. It was still raining outside.

We finished our breakfast in silence. After we had cleared the table and put our dishes in the sink, Brittany tapped my shoulder and gestured towards the stairs. I nodded and we both descended into the basement.

* * *

_11:45 a.m._

After watching mindless cartoons for a better part of the morning, Brittany decided that we should go out for another driving lesson.

"Brittany, it's pouring," I told her, hugging the yellow blanket around my legs to stay warm. "I don't know if you're quite ready to drive in the rain yet, either."

"Come on," she insisted, pouting. "It'll be fine, we'll just go to that parking lot."

I rolled my eyes, but I already liked the idea of getting out of the house. It sounded like more fun than watching cartoons. "Fine," I told her. "Go ask your mom if we can use the car."

She bounded up the stairs and I followed her slowly, shaking my head at her enthusiasm.

"Britt, I'm going to go upstairs and get dressed, okay?" I told her.

"Okay," she agreed, walking into the kitchen, where Mrs. Pierce was washing dishes.

I walked up to Brittany's room alone, glancing at the pictures of the Pierce family on the wall next to the staircase. Michael stood out a little more in these pictures, but I knew I was looking for him because of what Brittany had told me. In the pictures where Brittany was very small and her parents looked very young, he still had a mop of white-blonde hair on his head. In some pictures it covered his eyes. In later pictures, where Mr. Pierce's hair had thinned, and Brittany's legs had grown awkwardly long, Michael had lost most of his hair. I frowned at these pictures, running my fingers over the smooth glass. There was an eerie sadness about these pictures, yet Brittany and Michael smiled the same smile, the one I loved to see on Brittany's face. Alan and Eleanor looked weary.

Brittany's room was dark when I walked in, so I turned on the lights. The shades were drawn. Brittany's bed was bare where we had removed the quilt and the pillows. My clothes lay in a heap on a floor where I had put them the night before. As I changed, the borrowed Radiohead shirt was the first to go; it made me feel like a slimy intruder. It felt impure. I didn't bother folding it before I tossed it towards a laundry basket that I knew Brittany kept her dirty clothes in. I then slipped off the shorts I had borrowed from Brittany and folded them, placing them on her bed. I stepped into the jeans I had worn the previous day and put on my bra, but stopped when I went to put my shirt on. I didn't want to change back into the shirt I had worn yesterday; it was wrinkled from sitting on the floor, and it didn't smell that great. I tossed it back to the floor and stood in the center of Brittany's room, shirtless.

I decided to borrow something from Brittany, knowing she wouldn't mind. After all, I'd borrowed pajamas from her twice.

I opened her armoire, which smelled strongly of maple, and went through a few of her drawers, looking for a sweatshirt. The third drawer I opened was full of Brittany's underwear and bras, all of them paired up in matching sets. There were pinks, and blues, and lace, and polka dots, and–

Blushing furiously, I slammed the drawer shut, quickly looking behind me to make sure no one had seen me looking at Brittany's underwear. A hat fell from the top of the piece of furniture, landing in my arms before falling to the floor. It was a Colorado Rockies hat, and it was very small. I winced as it hit the carpet, knowing instantly who the hat belonged to and what it meant to Brittany. I picked it up and ran my thumb over a spot on the brim where dust had begun to collect. After turning the hat over in my hands a few times, I replaced it on top of the armoire and continued my search for a sweatshirt.

I finally found Brittany's sweatshirts, which were in the very bottom drawer. I pulled out a simple black one with a Columbine rebel on the front and tugged it over my head. Just like everything she owned, it smelled just like her. It was strong on this sweatshirt, like she wore it often. I breathed deeply, with my head still halfway through the neck hole.

"What in the world is taking you so long?" Brittany asked from somewhere ahead of me.

I frantically pulled the sweatshirt on, trying to hide my embarrassment.

_Did she just see that?_

"I, uh," I stuttered. "I wanted to borrow a sweatshirt." I could feel my hair sticking out in all directions, so I smoothed it back and stared awkwardly at Brittany, who was smirking at me. She was still in her pajamas, and she had her arms folded across her chest. "I didn't hear you come upstairs," I continued. I was trying to fill the silence.

"That's weird," she said, walking towards me. Her arms crossed to find the bottom of her t-shirt, which she pulled off as she walked, tossing her blonde hair behind her. It revealed creamy white skin and a light blue bra. My heart leapt into my throat. I moved out of the way so she could get to her drawers.

The slope in her back became more defined as she leaned over to open the sweatshirt drawer. I looked away. I felt that tingling feeling again, and it was beginning to drive me crazy, because I couldn't figure out what was causing it. I took a deep breath in through my nostrils, out through my mouth. Just like Brittany taught me.

"Damn it," she said, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. She was still rummaging around the sweatshirt drawer. "You took my favorite." She turned around and gave me a playful glare.

"Sorry," I mumbled, swallowing the lump in my throat. I walked back over to the end of the bed and picked up my shirt. Desperate for a distraction, I folded it at least three times, my eyes darting everywhere in the room but behind me, where I knew Brittany was changing. I tugged at the crew neck of the sweatshirt. The room felt very warm.

"Hey," she said softly, her voice just a foot behind me. "You ready to go? Mom said we can have the car until two."

I smiled at her. "Awesome, let's go."

She went down the staircase first, leading me to a side door I hadn't seen before. I didn't look at the family pictures on the way down.

"Shouldn't we take an umbrella?" I asked Brittany, looking pointedly at the downpour outside.

She paused. "Nah." Then she threw the door open, running towards the Buick in the driveway, holding her arms above her head to protect her from the rain.

I took a deep breath to prepare myself before I sprinted after her into the warm April rain. Throwing the door shut behind me, I mimicked Brittany and covered my head with my arms. It did little to keep the rain from hitting me in the face full-force, drenching my hair and my shoulders. Brittany had gotten into the passenger's side of the car, leaving me to drive us to the abandoned parking lot a few miles away. I patted my back pocket to make sure my wallet was still in my jeans.

My wet hand found the slippery car door handle, and I yanked it open, all but hurling myself into the vehicle. Brittany laughed at me, shaking her hair like a wet dog and throwing droplets of water all over the leather interior.

"Brittany!" I yelled. "Stop it!"

She just kept laughing, pushing me playfully in the shoulder and continuing to get the water out of her hair. Mildly annoyed, I decided to play along, shaking my own head too. Water from my hair hit her in the face, and she made a spitting noise with her lips as she tried to blow the water off of her face.

"You're so mean!" she cried through her laughter.

I shook my head harder, laughing with her. "Give me the keys," I ordered, wiping my wet hands on my jeans.

Brittany handed me the keys, which were also wet, and they slipped in my hands as I fit them into the ignition. I put the car in reverse, checked my mirrors, and pulled out of the Pierce's driveway. She leaned on the car window and stared at me with an accusatory look, still faking anger.

"You started it," I told her, shrugging my shoulders.

"Yeah, but," Brittany trailed off, incapable of providing a sufficient rebuttal. She stewed in the corner.

"I win at everything," I sang as we drove to the parking lot.

"You're a jerk," she said, shoving me in the shoulder.

"Hey, don't injure the driver," I scolded. She just rolled her eyes, wiping her wet hair from her forehead. I could see her smile.

* * *

"So how are we going to do this?" I asked, looking from me, to Brittany, and back to me. "Because I do not want to get out of this car."

Visibility was poor, with sheets of rain hitting the windows relentlessly. I had turned the windshield wipers up to their highest setting, but they were doing little to reveal anything more than ten feet in front of us. I was beginning to regret agreeing to let Brittany drive; the weather was awful.

"Chinese fire drill?" Brittany offered, unbuckling her seatbelt.

I looked at her incredulously. "Do you really think that's going to work?"

"Might as well try it," she said, standing up as much as she could. Even stooping, her back was almost completely pressed against the roof of the car. I watched her, amazed at how she could contort herself into such a position. She kneeled on the center console. "Hurry up, this is really uncomfortable," she complained.

"Hey, I never agreed to this," I told Brittany, but I conceded, unbuckling my seatbelt and kneeling on the center console, copying her. Our legs touched.

_Here come those tingles_.

She looked thoughtfully at our position before making eye contact with me. Our faces were only a few inches apart.

"You move left, I move right?" she proposed, pointing to her right. Her breath tickled my cheek. It was warm.

"Sounds good," I said, waiting for her to move past me. I probably waited a little longer than I should've before moving into the passenger's seat, but I didn't dwell on it.

Though the switch was far less graceful than Brittany had intended, no one broke any limbs, and we managed to untangle our feet without much hassle. We had, however, left wet footprints all over the leather seats.

"Oops," Brittany giggled, looking at a footprint on the back of the seat. "I'll clean that up later."

I shook my head fondly. Brittany turned back to the parking lot, squinting.

"How did you drive us here? I can't see a thing." She looked frustrated.

I thought for a minute. "Just try. You know the layout of the parking lot, so just do some circles. The rain will let up eventually."

She nodded and knitted her eyebrows together, concentrating on the road. She stepped on the gas, and the car lurched forward. My stomach lurched with the car.

I groaned. She laughed.

* * *

_Friday, April 28__th__, 1999, 11:58 p.m._

"I still can't believe you ran all the way here in the rain," I said for the third time as I rubbed a kitchen towel down Brittany's dripping arms. "I thought you might not come," I admitted, trying to dry Brittany's thin t-shirt, which was soaked through. The effort was a complete waste; the t-shirt was sopping wet.

"I h-had t-t-to," Brittany stuttered, her teeth chattering. Her lips were blue.

I shook my head, placing a hand on her cheek so I could dry her hair. She stood frozen in the foyer with her arms over her chest.

"Trying to dry you off is a waste of time, isn't it?" I asked her, placing my hands on my hips and looking at her shaking form.

"P-probably," she replied, rubbing at her bare legs. Her flip-flops squeaked against the hardwood.

"Come on, I'll give you some clothes," I said, returning to the dark kitchen to put the towel on the edge of the sink.

She followed me up the stairs, and I could hear her teeth clacking together as she trembled. It seemed as though she was having trouble getting warm. It did make me smile that she walked to my house in the rain; I had spent hours lying awake, waiting to see if she would come over. My expectations hadn't been high, so I was pleasantly surprised to find her on my doorstep. She was five minutes early, too.

I handed Brittany one of my large white t-shirts, and she stripped down to her underwear. It was dark, so I couldn't see her naked form as she pulled the shirt over her head.

I suppose the darkness was a good thing.

She climbed quietly into my bed, leaving her wet clothes in a pile on the floor. I shook my head at her carelessness and picked up the wet clothes, leaving Brittany alone in my bed to place them on the shower rod in my bathroom to dry. The last thing I needed was to have Brittany walk home in clothes festering with mildew.

I returned to find Brittany spooning one of my pillows. Her wet hair was splayed behind her. She looked beautiful, and the look on her face was one of absolute content. I closed the door quietly behind me and slipped under the covers, watching her. She appeared to be trying to keep her eyes open; they would open up every few seconds, but then fall to half-closed just as quickly, hiding her gray-blue irises. Six hours of sleep the night before hadn't been enough for her.

"Britt?" I whispered, reaching across the pillow between us to brush her wet hair from her forehead. She snuggled deeper into the pillow.

"Mm," she grunted, opening her hand and grasping at my bare arm. She mumbled something unintelligible.

"What?" I asked, leaning closer.

"Far away," I heard.

Confused, I looked down at her. Her eyebrows were scrunched together, like they were when she was frustrated or concentrating. And then I realized what she was telling me.

_Oh._

I took the pillow from Brittany, placing it on the bed on her other side. Her body molded to mine as I threaded my arm beneath hers, pulling us closer. She breathed slowly, happy, and her eyes closed.

"Good night, Brittany," I told her, rubbing my thumb over the thin white fabric of her borrowed shirt. My fingers dipped into the dimples of her lower back as I moved my hand counterclockwise.

"G'night," she mumbled, followed by something closely resembling 'Santana,' but my name appeared to be missing most of its vowels. I smiled at her in the dark, and I think she felt it, because the corners of her pink lips twitched just slightly.

Feeling tired, I rested my head in the crook of her neck and breathed her in. Her skin was still a little damp from the rain, but her shirt was dry, and her hair still smelled of her shampoo, as it always did, and her neck smelled like it was freshly washed. I let my eyes fall closed.

As I lay there, falling asleep, listening to the rain on the roof, I deliriously wondered if her she tasted as good as she smelled.

* * *

_Saturday, May 1st, 1999, 5:30 p.m._

It poured for almost three days straight, leaving the town a dismal gray. I suppose it reflected the mass mourning occurring in every place imaginable: street corners, churches, grocery stores, the front lawn of the school. Flowers, picture frames, and candles were everywhere.

Brittany and I opted to stay inside while the rain soaked Littleton. We couldn't go running, as I gleefully pointed out, so we alternated between her house and mine during the day, watching movies, playing board games, and eating bag after bag of popcorn. We had been at Brittany's house for a better part of the day, spending at least six hours entertaining Emily. After a fourth round of Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? I could tell Brittany was getting antsy. It was even more obvious when she let Emily win again by "confusing" Russia and the United States.

"Oh no," Brittany said half-heartedly. "Emily wins again."

Emily was oblivious to Brittany's misery, and drunk on her newly acquired superiority over us. She started bossing Brittany and me around, telling us to get her food. It was endearing at first, but after a few hours, Brittany and I couldn't take it anymore.

"Do you think I should go home?" I whispered to Brittany as she poured Emily a glass of apple juice.

She widened her eyes and looked at me helplessly. "Oh my god, don't leave me with this monster," she said.

I laughed, but Brittany didn't.

"Do you want to come over for dinner?" I asked her, putting the juice back in the fridge. I knew my mom wouldn't mind if Brittany came over. She was still at work.

"I really want to spit in this," Brittany told me, eyeing the apple juice with far more disdain than it deserved.

"Brittany, give me the juice," I scolded, taking the glass from her. "You're terrible."

She hung her head in mock shame, jutting out her lower lip. "What are we having for dinner?" she asked, dropping the charade and looking me in the eyes.

"Popcorn," I told her, smirking.

"Anything but popcorn!" Brittany wailed, slapping a bare hand against the kitchen counter. I giggled.

"Where's my apple juice?" Emily yelled from the living room.

"You know what," Brittany conceded. "I will eat a gym sock if you can just _get me out of this house,_" she said, lowering her voice to a spiteful whisper.

I walked into the living room and handed Emily her juice with a saccharine smile on my face. I had just about had it with Emily for the day. She was a cute kid, but she knew it. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was her downfall.

Brittany nearly sprinted out of the kitchen to her mom's office, sliding across the floorboards in her knee-high socks. She told me they were her rainy day socks. They were striped.

Mrs. Pierce's office was not really an office, as Brittany had explained earlier that day. It was just a room in the house with a desktop computer and some knitting materials in it. Brittany said the Pierce family called it Eleanor's office because she went in there when she needed alone time. Emily understood that when people were in offices they were working and should not be disturbed, so the Pierce family called it the office.

Brittany said her mom had been in there a lot lately.

I sat on the floor next to Emily, who was begging me to play another game of Carmen Sandiego with her. I rejected the child's advances, and after a little while she gave up, content to poke at the figurines on the game board with a huge frown on her face. I rolled my eyes. She was nearly a carbon copy of Brittany, who was taking a little longer than I would've liked to ask her mom to drive us to my house.

I felt bad ditching Emily, but not really. I was done with babysitting for the day.

The blonde returned a few seconds later with her mom at her heels; the older woman was slipping her arms into a bright yellow raincoat. She had a smile on her face, but it looked a little forced.

"You girls ready?" she asked.

"Yes," Brittany said immediately, heading towards the side door. She left the shoelaces of her Chuck Taylors untied.

"Where are we going?" Emily asked.

"Put your shoes on, we're going to drop the girls off at Santana's," Mrs. Pierce replied quickly, ushering Emily towards the side door. Emily didn't protest. Brittany's mom sounded exhausted, like my mom sometimes did when she worked a double shift. I didn't know why she would be so tired, but I decided not to question it. The week had been a difficult one for everyone.

Ten minutes later, I thanked Mrs. Pierce and climbed out of the car onto my driveway. It was still raining. Brittany followed me, leaving a frowning Emily in the back seat of the Buick. We walked quickly through the rain. I pulled our other spare key from my back pocket, fumbling with the slippery lock while Brittany leaned against the house, trying to shield herself from the downpour.

I let us into the house before the rain could soak through our clothes. Brittany kicked off her shoes, leaving them in a pile by the door. I took my own shoes off, lining them up neatly before doing the same to Brittany's. Her shoes were bigger than mine. I dropped the house key into the bowl by the door and walked into the living room, where Brittany was spread out on the couch. Though the couch was big–about six feet long–Brittany occupied nearly the entire thing, leaving only a few inches between her feet and the arm of the couch furthest from her.

"What do you want to do?" I asked her, walking over and sitting down directly on her feet.

"Ow," she complained. "Get off." She curled into a crunch and shoved me off of her legs with long arms, depositing me in the few inches of space left on the couch.

"Britt, stop hogging the couch," I groaned, tickling the bottoms of her socked feet. The tactic was effective, and she immediately retracted her legs, bringing them up against her chest. I turned to face her, copying her position. She had a big smile on her face.

"We could watch a movie," she said, wiggling her toes.

"Come on, all we do is watch movies." And it was true. In the last few days, especially. We'd probably watched six or seven movies, just to pass the time.

Brittany pursed her lips thoughtfully. "You're right." She scrunched up her nose, annoyed that she couldn't think of anything for us to do. Her hair was a little wet from the rain, making it heavier on her shoulders. It had been straight before we left her house, but now it was wavier. She curled a strand of it around her index finger, tightening it to a coil before releasing it.

"Santana?" she was asking. "Santana?"

My head snapped up to look at her. "What?"

"You're out of it today," she said, frowning. "Did you hear what I said?"

I blinked rapidly, trying to remember what Brittany said. Had I really been that distracted? "Uh… no," I said, averting my gaze.

Brittany smiled, and I was grateful I hadn't annoyed her. "I asked if you wanted to make dinner, so it's ready when your mom gets home."

"That's a good idea," I told her, getting to my feet. "What do you want to make?"

"Not macaroni and cheese," Brittany jested, her eyes twinkling.

I blushed and shook my head. "Let's look in the fridge, we'll see what we have. I think my mom might've put out some chicken this morning to defrost."

Brittany nodded, following me into the kitchen. Sure enough, there were chicken breasts defrosting in the sink. "Alright, we can make anything with chicken in it."

"Chicken pot pie," Brittany said, her head in the freezer.

"That's kind of random," I told her, laughing.

"You have a bunch of pie crusts," she informed me. "Plus, chicken pot pie is like a meal inside of a pie crust. You can't go wrong with pot pie."

"Works for me."

* * *

I stood over the stove, adding the celery to the chicken, carrots, and peas that simmered in a saucepan. Brittany stood next to me, her pan containing the ingredients for the sauce. She pulled a wooden spoon through the mixture. My left arm was so close to her right that I could feel the fine hairs of her arms on my skin. Tingles ran up my arm and down my spine.

"What are you wearing tomorrow?" she asked casually, adjusting the pan on the burner.

"Black," I said simply. "You?"

"I guess I'll wear black," Brittany said, shrugging. "I don't really like to wear black."

I could understand that. "I wear black all the time."

"I know," Brittany said, turning her head to smile at me. I smiled back.

We cooked in silence for a while. I moved away from the stove to pour the chicken and vegetables into each of the three pie crusts.

"I talked to Quinn," Brittany said. I froze, the warm air of the room suddenly unpleasant on my skin. A carrot slid from the serving spoon to the floor. I knelt down to pick it up.

"What'd she say?" I tried not to sound jealous or defensive, but I don't know how well that worked. I turned to look at Brittany, but her back was to me. She had stopped stirring the sauce on the stove.

Brittany sighed. "She gets back from Ohio today, and she wants to meet at the memorial. She wants to have dinner with me afterwards."

Anger rose like bile to my throat, threatening to spill out in the form of insults and curses. I gripped the edge of the counter, my knuckles paling. "How do you feel about that?" I managed.

"I'll go if it's okay with you," Brittany said. "I should still be able to come over that night."

The knowledge that I would be alone, without Brittany, was upsetting. The knowledge that she would be with Quinn, out to dinner, was devastating.

"We can still sit together at the memorial, Quinn will just be there with us," Brittany said casually, still avoiding eye contact. She meant well, but I knew that the memorial wouldn't go well if Brittany tried to mix two very different friendships together.

"I don't know if that's a good idea–" I started to say, but Brittany cut me off.

"Please?" she said desperately, finally turning around to look me in the eyes. She removed the pan from the stove, bringing it over to pour the mixture into the crusts. I had never seen her with this look in her eyes; she was obviously torn between her old friend and me.

All I could think about was being left behind, alone again. Once I knew what having Brittany was like, I didn't think I could go back to not being her friend. Quinn's presence threw a wrench in my plans to become Brittany's best friend.

"Okay," I told her, putting the tray of pies into the oven to cook.

* * *

_Sunday, May 2__nd__, 1999, 2:45 p.m._

My mother and I pulled up to the memorial fifteen minutes before it started. The scenic amphitheater was already packed. I was stunned to see so many news vans; all of the major news stations had a crew running around and setting up cameras. A few Columbine students were being interviewed at the entrance.

The sheer volume of people at the Red Rocks Amphitheater was overwhelming. Thousands of people had already filtered into the stands. It was a beautiful setting for the memorial, nestled in the mountains of Colorado. The rows of stands were flanked on both sides by two massive red rocks, each protruding like daggers into the sky. The stage was backed by a third, smaller red rock.

We walked into the stands, and a security guard immediately stopped us, pointing to a sign. "The CHS student section is up front," he told us gruffly. "First thirty rows."

Certain that Brittany was in the student section, I gave my mom a quick kiss on the cheek before walking down to the bottom rows. I looked back to see that she had found a seat; my mom was in the middle of the amphitheater, in front of all of the news crews, which were restricted to the top of the theater. Satisfied that I'd be able to find her after the ceremony, I walked down to the student section.

Students I knew from school milled around in front of the stage, hugging. People were already crying. Boys pulled awkwardly at their black ties, and girls' mascara ran down their carefully made up faces. A few teachers I recognized talked in small groups with their students. I looked for Brittany or Quinn, dreading the inevitable interaction with the latter.

I found them both by one of the large speakers, talking with their heads close together. Their hands were clasped together between them. Even though Brittany didn't like to wear black, she wore it well. Better than Quinn, really. Brittany's dress was short, but not too short. It was tight, but not inappropriate. She wore simple black flats. Quinn wore heels, making her almost eye level with Brittany. I observed from the side of the stands, waiting for Brittany to take notice of me and call me over. I felt as though I was interrupting something as I eyed their clasped hands jealously.

A few other girls walked over to join Brittany and Quinn, and the two broke apart to widen their circle. I recognized these new girls as cheerleaders. Brittany hugged each girl, wrapping her long arms around them, but not holding them very tight. I didn't like to see Brittany so touchy with these girls, but she didn't hug them the way she hugged me. I was sure of it.

The group engaged in conversation, but Brittany seemed to distance herself from it. She looked around the amphitheater, looking for something. My heart pounded.

She found me after a few seconds, gently pushing aside a girl in front of her to walk towards me. Conversation in the group stopped, and I shuffled awkwardly in Brittany's line of view, hoping that I had dressed right, and my makeup looked okay, and my hair wasn't a frizzy mess. I could see the other cheerleaders eyeing me, especially Quinn, who looked curious. She had a hint of a smirk on her face.

Brittany reached me and enveloped me in one of the hugs I loved so much, but I pulled away quickly, paranoid of her friends' judgment. A look of hurt crossed Brittany's features, but I blinked and it was gone.

"You look beautiful," Brittany complimented, stepping back and holding my wrists at arm's length.

"Thanks," I said, blushing. "So do you."

"Come meet everyone," she told me, nodding towards the group. "They're really nice, I promise."

Before I could protest, Brittany was leading me towards the cheerleaders, her hand gripping my left wrist delicately. My skirt felt too long and too thick in the humidity; the rain had stopped late the night before, but the air was still heavy and warm.

She guided me over to the girls, who left an opening for Brittany and I to join the group. "This is Santana," Brittany said, smiling at everyone. "Santana, this is Quinn, Kitty, Bree, Becky, and Jordan." They nodded at me, but returned to their individual side conversations. I breathed a sigh of relief; they didn't seem to have much of a reaction to my presence, which was exactly what I was hoping for. Quinn, however, was different.

"So this is the girl?" Quinn asked, eyeing my outfit and my makeup. She narrowed her eyes. The cheerleaders looked at Quinn when she spoke, confused that she was paying any attention to me.

Brittany looked annoyed by her comment, though I couldn't figure out why. The context was lost on me. "Quinn," she said harshly, in a tone I had never heard her use before. "Don't."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Quinn said icily, her thin smirk curling at the corners.

I looked from Quinn to Brittany, searching for an answer. Their eyes were locked in a fierce staring match. After a few seconds, Brittany looked away.

"That's what I thought," Quinn said haughtily, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Brittany looked angry, but I could tell she was embarrassed by the color on her cheeks. I had never seen her like this.

Before I could ask what the hell was going on, a loud tapping sound came from the speaker nearest to us. Most of the students near it raised their hands to their ears, protecting themselves from the volume.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we will be starting soon, so please take your seats," a man announced. He adjusted the microphone before turning around.

Quinn led her posse to the third row of seats, walking to somewhere in the middle. She instructed two girls, whose names I forgot, to sit on her left and her right.

I was liking Quinn less and less by the minute.

Brittany and I sat towards the end of the row, next to Becky. I stared at Brittany pointedly, waiting for her to explain Quinn's behavior, but she either didn't notice or chose to remain silent. Our principal, Mr. DeAngelis, had stepped onto the stage and was standing at the microphone. He was a short man, no taller than me. His dark hair was carefully gelled, and his suit neatly pressed, but his eyes were bloodshot and sunken. A few cameras flashed somewhere behind us, and the low chatter of the crowd ceased.

His speech wasn't long, but it was inspiring. Brittany and I didn't look at each other as he spoke about the deceased, the killers, new security changes at Columbine, construction on the library, and the unending support from the community. A montage of pictures was projected onto the screen behind him, showing us the lives of the people that had been killed in the massacre. Pictures of the killers were not displayed. Brittany began to cry as pictures of people she had known filled the screen: two football players, the volleyball team captain, her business teacher. All people she knew, all dead. I reached for her hand and she grasped it desperately. It was wet from wiping away her tears, but her fingers were strong where they gripped mine.

I was lucky enough not to know as many people as Brittany did, but I felt tears in my eyes as childhood photos of a little boy in a little league uniform flashed across the screen. A few football players sitting in the row in front of us wiped their eyes as well. Three seats down, Quinn looked at our joined hands. She was not crying, but smirking at us. I was disgusted, and I gripped Brittany's hand harder. Quinn shook her head at me before turning back to look at the stage.

After an elaborate presentation of bouquets to the families of the victims, the memorial came to a close. Mr. D stepped up to the microphone again, wringing his hands in front of him.

"We survived. We will prevail. We have hope to carry on because we were Columbine, we still are Columbine, and we will be an even stronger Columbine from this day forward," he announced, and the entire amphitheater responded with roaring applause that echoed off of the rocks. Brittany released my hand to clap. I glanced at Quinn; she was clapping with everyone else, leaning on the girl to her left. She wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand.

_Fake bitch_.

Brittany tugged on the sleeve of my cardigan, pulling me into a hug. She nearly crushed me to her chest, pushing my face into her neck, which was wet with tears. I wrapped my arms around her middle, hyperaware of Quinn's judging gaze on my back. I rubbed Brittany's back a few times with my hand before leaning back out of her strong grasp. She wiped at her eyes, which were full of sadness. The blue was a muted color, like the sky had been over the past few days. They gleamed with unshed tears.

"Are you okay? I asked her, wanting to reach out and touch her, but restraining myself.

"Yeah," she sniffed, brushing some hair from her forehead. "This is hard."

"I know it is," I told her.

It seemed as though Brittany had given up completely on being the strong one. She had probably been in denial for the past two weeks. The thought was a disturbing one. Brittany really hadn't been okay, she'd just been telling herself she was. I wished I had noticed sooner.

"I guess it's a good thing we're going back to school," she said, looking at the ground.

I couldn't do much but agree. "Yeah."

"I think I have to go now," she said, looking over my shoulder. I turned around to see Quinn beckoning Brittany over, her smirk replaced by a look of annoyance. She was mouthing 'let's go' to Brittany. She narrowed her eyes at me, and I shrunk back. Brittany stepped awkwardly around me towards Quinn.

"So I guess I'll see you tomorrow," she told me, not making eye contact.

"See you," I said, watching her and Quinn weave through the crowds, leaving for dinner. I didn't know where they were going. As soon as they were out of earshot, they began talking heatedly about something. I could tell by the way Brittany moved her hands. She looked stressed.

As I watched them walk up the stairs to the exit, I realized, sadly, that it was the first time Brittany and I had parted ways without a hug.

* * *

My mom and I talked a lot at dinner, which was unusual. She had a lot to say about the memorial. I listened to her and ate my pork chops, looking up every once in a while to make eye contact. She was excited about the progress being made on school security, but she wouldn't shut up about how annoying the "paparazzi" were. She didn't seem to understand that the reporters weren't technically paparazzi, but I didn't tell her otherwise. In conclusion, she was worried about the media attention that all of the students were getting.

"It will interrupt the learning," she told me seriously, eating a bite of mashed potatoes.

I shrugged, indifferent to the media attention. Little of it had fallen on me, so I wasn't concerned. Oblivious to my indifference, she continued complaining about the media, and how their presence had tainted the memorial. She had no idea what she was talking about.

All I could think about was Brittany. It was hard not to think about her. We had been together for almost two straight weeks, spending nearly every minute together. I had nothing else to think about. There was nothing else I wanted to think about. I thought of the strange interaction between Quinn and Brittany, and the way Quinn acted towards her. I thought of the way Brittany let Quinn be in control. I worried about her, out to dinner with such a bitch. I wondered what evil people like Quinn ordered for dinner. I hoped Brittany was enjoying herself.

After dinner, I cleared my plate and retreated to my room, telling my mom I needed to get some things ready for school the next day. She let me go, even though we both knew I had the entire morning to prepare for school, which would begin at noon. They were sending out buses for us, and I was taking one, much to my chagrin.

To pass the time and to distract me from my thoughts of Brittany, I went through my closet to find an outfit to wear to school. Following much deliberation, I settled on a plain black blouse and jeans, thinking it would be appropriate to continue dressing in the color of mourning.

I had no backpack to bring to school, so I would be bringing nothing the next day. I wondered briefly if I would ever get my bag back. In need of a shower, I undressed in my bathroom, climbed into the tub, and let the hot water relax my muscles. The water was therapeutic, but it didn't give me any answers. I still couldn't interpret the hostility between Brittany and Quinn, and Quinn's strange attitude towards me. It was all very confusing.

After my shower, I lay down on my bed, my wet hair wrapped in a towel, unable to keep my thoughts away from her. I didn't let Quinn contaminate my thoughts about Brittany; instead, I thought only of her.

I remembered the conversation we had had a few days earlier, when I slept over at her house. The one about sex. When I thought about it, I had no idea what wanting to have sex even felt like. I'd read in books that people sometimes feel a magnetic attraction to someone, but I'd never felt that towards a boy. I'd never been horny. The only person I'd ever felt drawn to was–

_No. That's not possible_.

I discarded the thought as quickly as it came. It would be ridiculous for me to like Brittany like that.

But then again, she was beautiful. She had those perfect pink lips, and that long blonde hair, and that perfect body. It was no wonder all of the boys wanted her. It would only make sense that she drew in everyone. If there were someone I wanted to kiss, it'd be Brittany.

My brain told me it was completely wrong to think that, but once the idea manifested itself in my brain, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I knew that the notion was safe in my mind, where no one could see it–not Brittany, not my mom, not Quinn. And in the safety of my own head, I, although reluctantly, allowed myself to think about it.

I touched my lips, imagining what hers would feel like against them. I knew they would probably feel soft, and warm, but I didn't know what they would taste like. I knew she'd be an excellent kisser because she's had lots of practice kissing people.

Thinking about kissing Brittany sent tingles all over my body, and a new feeling joined the familiar tingles; it was warm, and it moved like honey, slowly filling out the lower half of my body.

It was especially warm between my legs.

I was breathing heavily, I realized, and my heart was beating fast. It was exhilarating, this new feeling. I imagined the way her hand might reach up to hold the back of my neck, like actors did in movies. If I could, I would put my hands on her hips, which would undoubtedly feel wonderful under my hands. The warm honey feeling was getting more and more intense, and my hands trembled a little at my sides.

I watched the sun go down outside of my window, still thinking about the fantasy kiss. I wondered if I would close my eyes, and if she would close hers. I wondered how long the kiss would last, and if she would use her tongue. I wondered if I would use mine. I glanced briefly at the door, worried that my mother would hear my thoughts and come storming up the stairs to scream at me for my adulterous thoughts. But there was no movement from downstairs, only the low hum of the news on TV.

_I can't think about this shit. It's so wrong._

I groaned loudly and rolled over into my pillow, grabbing the material with my hands. I squeezed as hard as I could. Why had I done that? Brittany would know. The next time she saw me, she'd know I was thinking about kissing her. Frustrated with myself, I punched the pillow.

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

I was stupid to think about kissing her, and stupid to think she'd want to kiss me back. Stupid for thinking I could be her best friend. Stupid for sleeping next to her every single night.

I began to cry tears of frustration into my pillow.

* * *

At some point I must've cried myself to sleep, because I woke up to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Startled, I glanced at my clock. It was after two a.m. If it was Brittany, she was very late. And someone had left a door unlocked. If it wasn't Brittany, it was probably my mom, maybe getting a glass of water. And if it was none of the above…

I didn't want to think about that.

I shrank into my bed, burrowing under the covers to hide myself from view. The footsteps grew closer, and I could hear the distinct sound of Brittany's flip-flops. It was a sound that I had begun to associate with her leaving; the rhythmic _thwack _of rubber on pavement. Now she was walking to my room. I breathed a sigh of relief.

My door opened, and sure enough, there she was. She stood still in the doorway. I couldn't see her face, but her head was slightly tilted. It looked like she was watching me. Her hand remained on the doorknob, and after a few seconds, she closed the door carefully. She paused for another minute, looking at my bed. I didn't move, giving her the impression that I was asleep. Brittany walked closer, stopping at the edge of the bed. I could see her face by the light of the moon coming through the window.

Her hand reached out, and my heartbeat sped up. I closed my eyes tight, trying to look like I was asleep. She hesitated over my forehead before her thumb brushed against it, effectively moving a piece of hair back to its place. I hoped to God she couldn't tell I was awake.

I cracked my eyes open, knowing that I was protected from her view by shadow. She shed her flip-flops, and then, to my surprise, pulled off her shirt, revealing her toned torso. It was too dark to tell what color her bra was, but I knew she was wearing one. She dropped the t-shirt to the floor, looking back at me every few seconds to make sure I was asleep.

Then, clad in only her bra and shorts, she climbed gracefully over my legs to her side of the bed. A warm hand cupped my shoulder as she pulled back the covers and slid under them. The length of her body pressed up against mine, and I couldn't stop that warm feeling from spreading through my body as her bare stomach made contact with the back of my t-shirt. I instantly wished I had taken my shirt off before bed.

I parted my lips to release the breath I had been holding. She settled into the bed, wrapping her arms around me, as she always did, and held me close. She smelled different than usual, but there was still a hint of lavender on her. My entire body felt electric as she tilted her head forward and her lips made contact with the back of my neck. They were still for a few seconds, and I almost couldn't tell they were there. She breathed slowly, and I could barely hold still in front of her. She was, technically, kissing the back of my neck. I was dying to know whether it was intentional or not.

"Goodnight, Santana," she whispered. All of the small hairs on the back of my neck stood up when she spoke. I didn't respond, continuing to pretend I was asleep.

Brittany removed her lips and pressed her forehead to the back of my neck instead, taking a deep breath. She fell asleep after a while, but I couldn't. All I could think about was the way she was touching me, and how she was half-naked. I told myself not to think about it, but it was impossible. I didn't know exactly what was happening in my body or my head, but I knew that it was confusing and stressful and it gave me panic sweat.

_I am so fucked._

* * *

_Monday, May 3__rd__, 1999, 8:46 a.m._

It was almost 9 a.m. when I woke up. I usually woke up much earlier, early enough to get Brittany out of the house. The first thing I saw when I woke up was the clock, and my heart sank. Brittany was probably gone and hadn't bothered to wake me up.

I sighed and rolled onto my back. I smiled when I saw that she was still in my bed, and still asleep. She was spread out on her back like a starfish, her chest rising softly every few seconds. Her mouth was open, making small snoring noises with each breath she took. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess. The comforter had been pushed down to the foot of the bed, revealing Brittany's body all the way down to her bare knees. I could see each individual goosebump on her arms, and I figured she must be cold. I reached down to pull the comforter over her, but I paused.

I had never been able to look at Brittany like this.

After a second of careful deliberation, I decided not to pass up the opportunity. She wouldn't see me looking. The room was brighter in the sunlight, allowing me to see each and every dip and curve of Brittany's body. Her stomach was perfectly flat, with a distinct dip that ran from between her breasts down to her navel, outlining her toned abdomen. Her collarbone was well-defined above her pastel green bra, and her arms and shoulders were muscular.

I wanted to touch her, and feel the contours of her muscles, but I didn't. Instead, though it pained me to do so, I reached down to the comforter below us and tugged it upwards to her chin.

"Hi," she whispered, her voice cracking. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing bloodshot blue. I dropped the comforter, pulling my hand back like I had been shocked.

"Hey," I said calmly, trying not to look guilty. In my head, I was panicking. Had she been awake this whole time?

"I got here pretty late, so I let myself in," Brittany told me, rubbing her eyes. "Your side door was unlocked."

I nodded. "I didn't hear you come in."

"It was almost two, I think," she said. "Sorry I was late." She looked down at her hands, which were resting on top of the comforter.

"Was there a reason?" I had my eyes trained on her face, nervous about her lack of clothing. I didn't trust myself. To do what, I didn't know. I didn't want to think about it.

She tried to tame her hair by running a hand through it. She looked tired. "Well I was at Quinn's really late, and she invited me to sleep over, but I left." She paused, looking down again. "We had a fight."

Inside, I was glad they had fought; it meant I had less competition for her friendship. But I did feel bad for Brittany, who seemed upset by it. "Have you fought with her before?"

"Not like this," Brittany admitted. She picked at her nails.

"What were you fighting about?" I asked gently.

"I don't really want to talk about it," she said, looking out the window. She wouldn't look at me.

What had I done to deserve being shut out? I clenched my hands into fists under my blanket. I was furious, but I didn't say anything.

She looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, I just… it's hard to explain."

"Whenever you're ready," I told her, clenching my teeth.

Brittany didn't seem to notice that I was mad. She lay back on the bed, stretching her arms out in front of her. "I hope you don't mind that I took my shirt off," she said through a yawn. "Quinn's house is pretty far, and I was hot by the time I got here."

"It's fine," I said flatly. I didn't want to be mad at Brittany. It was difficult. But I was too stubborn to let her off the hook so easily.

She looked at me skeptically, her hands behind her head. It made the muscles in her arms flex. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I lied. "I'm fine."

"Alright."

We sat in silence for a while. For the first time since I'd met Brittany, it was awkward. I don't know if she caught on to my mood, but I could tell she was a little uncomfortable.

"Does your mom know where you are?" I asked Brittany.

"She thinks I'm at Quinn's," Brittany said. "I guess I should go soon, shouldn't I?" Brittany said, tossing the covers off of her. I looked away from her half naked body.

"If you want," I told her.

"Yeah," Brittany said, pulling her t-shirt over her head. "My mom will wonder where I am. I need to get ready for school. Are you going?"

"Why wouldn't I?" I snapped, a little hostile.

Brittany's blue eyes widened with shock. She was hurt. "I don't know," she said softly. "I was just asking."

I stood with my back to her, fiddling with the bottles of hair product on my nightstand.

She sighed, frustrated. "Can you come over after school?"

I closed my eyes and counted to five, trying to lessen my anger. I knew she couldn't see me. "Sure."

I heard Brittany breathe a sigh of relief behind me. "Alright, cool."

It was silent for a while as I cleaned up my room. Brittany was standing awkwardly by the door, presumably waiting for me to walk her out. I walked in front of her, taking the stairs quickly. She went to leave, as she had so many times before, but she stopped and turned around.

"Come here," she said, closing the distance between us and wrapping me in a tight hug. I melted into her. She had a calming presence, and her touch had the same effect. I breathed slower. "I'll tell you eventually," she whispered in my ear. "I just can't right now."

She had noticed that it bothered me. I was glad she was observant enough to figure out what was wrong. "Okay," I whispered back. She hugged me for a few more seconds before opening the front door and stepping onto the porch.

"If I don't see you before school ends, meet me by the front entrance. My mom will pick us up."

"Okay," I agreed. "I'll see you soon." I waved to her as she ran down the street. She waved back over her shoulder.

I sighed heavily and ran back upstairs to get ready for school.

* * *

_2:45 p.m._

School was weird. Very, very weird. Almost everyone wore black. Some students didn't bother getting dressed at all and just came in their pajamas. Plenty of people were absent from all of my classes; the absent students were mostly friends and siblings of the victims or the gunmen, but that went unspoken. I assumed everyone was thinking it. We did nothing even remotely scholarly; teachers in most classes pushed the desks together to form circles. In some classes, we went around and shared stories about the students we had known that had died. In others, we talked about where we were and the emotions we had experienced during the shooting. A lot of students vocalized their emotions. I was relatively quiet during these circles.

Taking the "healing with laughter" approach, my AP Physics teacher put _Dumb and Dumber_ on the classroom TV_, _promising that we would have enough time to finish the movie by the end of the week. The teachers had agreed that no finals would be given, and the College Board, who administered our AP exams, agreed to postpone Columbine's tests until further notice. The idea of taking the exam weeks after the course ended stressed me out, but I didn't think too much about it.

Around 1:30, Mr. DeAngelis knocked on the door of Mrs. Hagberg's classroom and entered with a large box. The cuffs of his white dress shirt were rolled up and he was sweating. The school was warm, but Mr. D looked like he had run a marathon. He placed the box on Mrs. Hagberg's desk, interrupting our sharing session. The girl that was talking stopped.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have a surprise for you," he said kindly, opening the box. Mrs. Hagberg stood from a desk to join him, looking into the cardboard box. "Jansport," he started, "a backpack manufacturer I'm sure all of you are familiar with, has kindly donated 500 brand new backpacks to Columbine. The backpacks are filled with school supplies donated from various stores across the United States."

The students in the classroom looked at each other, nodding. It was pretty cool.

"It has come to the attention of the administration that most students were not able to retrieve their backpacks from their lockers at our school, so these backpacks are to be given to students who were not able to get their bags from their lockers. We cannot promise that you will get your backpacks back until the summer," he said, breathing heavily. The box was clearly heavy.

He pulled out a black backpack. It had been flattened by the box, but it was still obviously a nice backpack. He held it up and unzipped it to show us the pencils, pens, erasers, and a notebook inside of it. The students leaned forward in their desks, excited by the prospect of new stuff.

"Now, I know that we don't have enough backpacks for every student, but we have taken into consideration that many of you were able to leave the building with your backpacks two weeks ago. If you were one of those students, I ask that you don't take one of the donated backpacks." He smiled widely. "Understood?"

The class nodded. He beckoned us up to take a backpack, and about ten people stood up, me included. I took a backpack, thanking Mr. D. He nodded, giving me a small smile. I kept the bag on my back for the rest of the day, noting that about half of the students I saw also carried the same backpack.

I didn't see Brittany at all. I wasn't familiar with her schedule, so I didn't know where to look for her. School was only a few hours long, and it kept me occupied, so not seeing her was bearable. We met up in the front of the building at 3. Her cheerleader friends were nowhere in sight, which I was glad about. Mrs. Pierce was waiting in her Buick with Emily in the backseat.

"Nice backpack," Brittany said, turning a little to show me her identical one. We crossed the front walk to get into the car. The air had warmed considerably since the rainstorm the week before.

I smiled. "Right back at ya."

And just like that, she was forgiven.


End file.
